of time and travel; and through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand, train-hand, contractor, boarding-house keeper, journalist, engineer, drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rum-seller, mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved Harvey Cheyne, alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and advancement of his country.

He told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the ragged edge of despair—­the faith that comes of knowing men and things.  He enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great courage and resource at all times.  The thing was so evident in the man’s mind that he never even changed his tone.  He described how he had bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good; crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his character to shreds.

The tale held Harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on his father’s face, as the twilight deepened and the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows.  It seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the dark—­a mile between each glare of the open fire-door:  but this locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the core of his soul.  At last Cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the two sat in the dark over the lapping water.

“I’ve never told that to any one before,” said the father.

Harvey gasped.  “It’s just the greatest thing that ever was!” said he.

“That’s what I got.  Now I’m coming to what I didn’t get.  It won’t sound much of anything to you, but I don’t wish you to be as old as I am before you find out.  I can handle men, of course, and I’m no fool along my own lines, but—­but—­I can’t compete with the man who has been taught!  I’ve picked up as I went along, and I guess it sticks out all over me.”

“I’ve never seen it,” said the son, indignantly.

“You will, though, Harve.  You will—­just as soon as you’re through college.  Don’t I know it?  Don’t I know the look on men’s faces when they think me a—­a ‘mucker,’ as they call it out here?  I can break them to little pieces—­yes—­but I can’t get back at ’em to hurt ’em where they live.  I don’t say they’re ’way ’way up, but I feel I’m ’way, ’way, ’way off, somehow.  Now you’ve got your chance.  You’ve got to soak up all the learning that’s around, and you’ll live with a crowd that are doing the same thing.  They’ll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a year at most; but remember you’ll be doing