before a famous speaker had given an address on an ethical subject at Yale.  A sentence of it came to the boy’s struggling mind.  “The courage of the commonplace is greater than the courage of the crisis,” the orator had said.  That was his chance—­ “the courage of the commonplace.”  No fireworks for him, perhaps, ever, but, by Jove, work and will could do a lot, and he could prove himself worthy.

“I’m not through yet, but ginger,” he said out loud.  “I can do my best anyhow and I’ll show if I’m not fit”—­the energetic tone trailed off—­he was only a boy of twenty—­“not fit to be looked at,” he finished brokenly.

It came to him in a vague, comforting way that probably the best game a man could play with his life would be to use it as a tool to do work with; to keep it at its brightest, cleanest, most efficient for the sake of the work.  This boy, of no phenomenal sort, had one marked quality—­when he had made a decision he acted on it.  Tonight through the soreness of a bitter disappointment he put his finger on the highest note of his character and resolved.  All unknown to himself it was a crisis.

It was long past dinner-time, but he dashed out now and got food, and when Baby Thomas came in he found his room-mate sleepy, but quite himself; quite steady in his congratulations as well as normal in his abuse for “keeping a decent white man awake to this hour.”

Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston “Tech.”  As his class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father waiting for him.  He noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a wonderful head—­a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared and cut down to the marrow of brains and force—­a man to be seen in any crowd.  With that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him.  The boy had graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father’s eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing.

“I didn’t know you were coming, sir.  That’s mighty nice of you,” he said, as they walked down Boylston Street together, and his father waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone.

“I wouldn’t have liked to miss it, Johnny,” he said.  “I don’t remember that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have to-day.”

With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away, looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere.  His father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he said anything as intimate to any of his sons.  They knew that the cold manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected to see the depths uncovered.  But here he was, talking of what he felt, of character, and honor and effort.