“I am afraid Eric Marshall will never do one quixotic thing,” said a Queenslea professor, who had a habit of uttering rather mysterious epigrams, “but if he ever does it will supply the one thing lacking in him.”

David Baker was a short, stocky fellow with an ugly, irregular, charming face; his eyes were brown and keen and secretive; his mouth had a comical twist which became sarcastic, or teasing, or winning, as he willed.  His voice was generally as soft and musical as a woman’s; but some few who had seen David Baker righteously angry and heard the tones which then issued from his lips were in no hurry to have the experience repeated.

He was a doctor—­a specialist in troubles of the throat and voice—­and he was beginning to have a national reputation.  He was on the staff of the Queenslea Medical College and it was whispered that before long he would be called to fill an important vacancy at McGill.

He had won his way to success through difficulties and drawbacks which would have daunted most men.  In the year Eric was born David Baker was an errand boy in the big department store of Marshall & Company.  Thirteen years later he graduated with high honors from Queenslea Medical College.  Mr. Marshall had given him all the help which David’s sturdy pride could be induced to accept, and now he insisted on sending the young man abroad for a post-graduate course in London and Germany.  David Baker had eventually repaid every cent Mr. Marshall had expended on him; but he never ceased to cherish a passionate gratitude to the kind and generous man; and he loved that man’s son with a love surpassing that of brothers.

He had followed Eric’s college course with keen, watchful interest.  It was his wish that Eric should take up the study of law or medicine now that he was through Arts; and he was greatly disappointed that Eric should have finally made up his mind to go into business with his father.

“It’s a clean waste of your talents,” he grumbled, as they walked home from the college.  “You’d win fame and distinction in law—­ that glib tongue of yours was meant for a lawyer and it is sheer flying in the face of Providence to devote it to commercial uses—­a flat crossing of the purposes of destiny.  Where is your ambition, man?”

“In the right place,” answered Eric, with his ready laugh.  “It is not your kind, perhaps, but there is room and need for all kinds in this lusty young country of ours.  Yes, I am going into the business.  In the first place, it has been father’s cherished desire ever since I was born, and it would hurt him pretty badly if I backed out now.  He wished me to take an Arts course because he believed that every man should have as liberal an education as he can afford to get, but now that I have had it he wants me in the firm.”

“He wouldn’t oppose you if he thought you really wanted to go in for something else.”