“I know”—­the lad’s voice mounted into a positive crescendo of conviction—­“I know by somethin’ that tells me, an’ it’s somethin’ that can’t lie.  The prophets knew that God had picked ’em out because He told ’em so in visions.  I haven’t just heard voices in dreams I’ve had the voice in me and I know—­know I tell you—­that, with a chance, I can be as great a man as any man ever was.  I’m not guessin’ or deludin’ myself.  I tell you, I know!  I’ve always known.”

“I reckon, Ham,” said the father gravely, “I can tell you the name of this thing that’s been informin’ you how great a man you can get to be.  It ain’t nothin’ under God’s heaven but self-conceit.”

But the boy swept on.  “Napoleon’s first friends were folks that ran a laundry, but afterward kings couldn’t talk to him unless he gave ’em permission.  John Hayes Hammond, Carnegie, Rockefeller, Frick, were all poor boys.  None of those men had any better blood in their veins than I’ve got in mine, an’ if you want to call it that, none of ’em had more self-conceit.”

“I reckon you’ve got good enough blood to have better sense,” observed the father shortly.  Then with a very human inconsistency he added, “I don’t often brag about it, but my middle name is Standish and Miles Standish was an ancestor of mine.”

“And my name,” retorted the boy, “is Hamilton, and Alexander Hamilton’s family were ancestors of my mother’s.  I reckon neither of those men would feel very proud to see us settin’ down here, wearin’ our lives away in a country where the ends won’t meet.”

“This damned foolishness has gone far enough,” ruled the elder in a voice of finality, his amusement suddenly giving way once more to sternness.  “I’ve listened to you because you seemed to be full of talk an’ I was willin’ to let you get it off your chest, but I don’t need counsel from any cub of a boy.  I’m nigh onto fifty years old an’ I’ve run my family all these years.  I had enough brains to get on with before you was born an’ if you’ve got all the sense you think you’ve got, you got it from me an’ your mother.  Until you get to be twenty-one, you’ll do what I bid you.  Heretofore you’ve done it willin’ly.  I hope you’ll go on doin’ it that way—­but if you don’t, I guess I’m still man enough to make you.  Now go to bed—­an’ go quick.”

The lad flushed to his cheekbones and for a moment he made no move to obey.  Under the tyrannizing manner of his father’s voice his spirit rose in rebellion.  Tom Burton strode over and his attitude was threatening.  “Did you hear what I said to you?” he inquired.  “Are you going by yourself, or have I got to take you upstairs?”

Slowly and with a strong self-mastery, Ham came to his feet.  “I’ll go to bed now,” he replied quietly, “because it would be a pity for us to quarrel—­but I’ve got a few more things to say, and, after awhile, I guess you’ll have to listen to ’em.  We’ll talk about this thing some more.”