“Yes,” March said, “much sooner than it seems to us.  We’re so anxious about the future that we don’t remember how very recent the past is.”

“That’s something so.  The old man’s hardly had time yet to pull himself together.  Well, I’m glad you feel that way about it, March.  I guess it’s more of a blow to him than we realize.  He was a good deal bound up in Coonrod, though he didn’t always use him very well.  Well, I reckon it’s apt to happen so oftentimes; curious how cruel love can be.  Heigh?  We’re an awful mixture, March!”

“Yes, that’s the marvel and the curse, as Browning says.”

“Why, that poor boy himself,” pursued Fulkerson, had streaks of the mule in him that could give odds to Beaton, and he must have tried the old man by the way he would give in to his will and hold out against his judgment.  I don’t believe he ever budged a hairs-breadth from his original position about wanting to be a preacher and not wanting to be a business man.  Well, of course!  I don’t think business is all in all; but it must have made the old man mad to find that without saying anything, or doing anything to show it, and after seeming to come over to his ground, and really coming, practically, Coonrod was just exactly where he first planted himself, every time.”

“Yes, people that have convictions are difficult.  Fortunately, they’re rare.”

“Do you think so?  It seems to me that everybody’s got convictions.  Beaton himself, who hasn’t a principle to throw at a dog, has got convictions the size of a barn.  They ain’t always the same ones, I know, but they’re always to the same effect, as far as Beaton’s being Number One is concerned.  The old man’s got convictions or did have, unless this thing lately has shaken him all up—­and he believes that money will do everything.  Colonel Woodburn’s got convictions that he wouldn’t part with for untold millions.  Why, March, you got convictions yourself!”

“Have I?” said March.  “I don’t know what they are.”

“Well, neither do I; but I know you were ready to kick the trough over for them when the old man wanted us to bounce Lindau that time.”

“Oh yes,” said March; he remembered the fact; but he was still uncertain just what the convictions were that he had been so stanch for.

“I suppose we could have got along without you,” Fulkerson mused aloud.  “It’s astonishing how you always can get along in this world without the man that is simply indispensable.  Makes a fellow realize that he could take a day off now and then without deranging the solar system a great deal.  Now here’s Coonrod—­or, rather, he isn’t.  But that boy managed his part of the schooner so well that I used to tremble when I thought of his getting the better of the old man and going into a convent or something of that kind; and now here he is, snuffed out in half a second, and I don’t believe but what we shall be sailing along just as chipper as usual inside of thirty days.  I reckon it will bring the old man to the point when I come to talk with him about who’s to be put in Coonrod’s place.  I don’t like very well to start the subject with him; but it’s got to be done some time.”