He paused a moment, then added, while a grin of satisfaction spread over his face:  “What’s more, Slivers Martin had to go an’ get ’em, an’ he had to go in three directions.  If he’d had sense enough, he could have got ’em himself in the first place for seven instead of ten.  The three dollars I got clear was my margin of profit, Paul, an’ a margin of profit is what a feller gets by turnin’ his margin of brain into money.”

The younger lad looked up with a mist of perplexity in his deep eyes.  He realized vaguely that Ham had accomplished a feat somehow savoring of business acumen, which was a matter he could not hope to comprehend.  Yet some comment seemed expected of him, so out of a slack interest he inquired, “Were they good lambs, Ham?  What were they like?”

The embryonic speculator favored his brother with an indulgent laugh.  “I guess they were all right,” he enlightened casually.  “As for me, I didn’t see ’em—­any more than the Wall-street men see the wheat they buy an’ sell.”

“Oh!” The little boy with the cameo face found himself still more at sea.  For a while they trudged along in silence; then, with an impulsive, almost impassioned gesture, Ham clapped his hand on the other’s shoulder and halted.  Paul, too, stopped, and, looking up, was startled to behold features set in a rapt expression and dominated by eyes glowing with an inward ardor.

“Listen to me, Paul,” began Ham in a voice which carried an electric thrill into the dreamy soul of the listener.  “You love music and you live in a place where they don’t know the difference between Tannhaeuser and a tom-tom.  Mary would like to be pretty and she lives in a place where if she was as beautiful as Cinderella, nobody but a bunch of hill-bullies would ever see her.  I want power, power that the world’s got to bow down to and acknowledge—­and I might just as well be locked up in somebody’ hen-house.  Well, maybe it’s enough for you only to dream about the music you don’t ever expect to hear, but as for me, I dream, too, and a dream ain’t much use to me unless I can turn it into facts.  I’m going to make your dreams come true—­every one of ’em.  I’m going to make Mary’s dreams come true.  There ain’t no better blood in the world, Paul, than you an’ me have got in our veins an’ I’m goin’ to see that we get what we’re entitled to.”

Paul’s pale cheeks colored for an instant and something deep within him stirred in response to the trumpet-like confidence of the voice which spoke with such assurance of the absurdly impossible.  Suddenly he awoke to the innate music of the inspired human tongue, and there was that in the face and figure of the taller stripling which abashed him, as though he had intruded on a prophet in his moment of exaltation.  Ham was listening to voices silent to other ears, and in his eyes glowed such resolve and invincible purpose as must have characterized the minute men when they steeled their hearts to meet and conquer the seemingly unconquerable.