"Where I was born," said Roger, "the ground is red, not black like this."
"This is rare rich soil, they say," answered Sparling; "where was that, Roger?"
"In Devonshire. My grandfather was Sir Carew Shafton's gamekeeper."
"The grandfather that bid ye never to lose a chance?"
"Yes, I never had but one grandfather; at least, I must have had two of course, but I never saw the other. Nor my mother either. She died when I was born."
"What like was your father?" inquired Sparling.
"My father?" said Roger. "My father was a genius. That's what they said of him. Man! There was nothing he couldn't do, except—stick to it. Sir Carew got him a place in a big piano factory; his cleverness lay mostly that way," the boy said vaguely, "but he invented an improvement, and the head folk said they didn't care for it, so he gave up his place and came home. I lived with grandfather, you know. Father walked in,—we were having our tea,—grandfather looked at him,—
"'No. 7,' says he.
"Father laughed. 'Just so, sir,' says he; 'but No. 8 will make my fortune.'
"I didn't understand then; but afterwards grandfather told me that was the seventh start in life he had got, seven places, all different, and gave satisfaction in every one of them, but never stayed long in any. He'd been a clerk in the post office, he'd been in a great chemist's shop, he'd been Sir Carew's—well, it's a long word, and it means he wrote letters for him—Sir Carew is very blind, and likes to have a man to write for him. I forget the rest of the chances, but all were good. Well, in a few days, he went off to London to see who would buy his invention, and soon after that grandfather died quite suddenly. Father wrote for me to go to him, and that he would soon be able to put me to a good school."