I found Turk at his sister's house. He jumped up at once on my proposing that he should take a walk with me.
'I am glad of the opportunity, Chris, my boy,' he said; 'for I want to talk to you.'
I answered, in as lively a tone as I could command, that I was at his service.
'Like a true friend as you are. The subject I want to talk about is spelt with four letters--s-e-l-f. Such a subject needs no overture; up with the curtain, then. I start with a self-evident proposition. A man must live. What do you say to that?'
I had nothing to say in contradiction.
'Very well, then. To live, one must have money; to have money (barring the silver spoon), one must work for it. Granted?'
'Granted,' I assented listlessly. He looked at me in surprise at my despondent tone.
'Ah,' he said, 'there's more in that than meets the eye.'
'More in what, Turk? In your proposition?'
'No, Chris, my boy. In your face. You are in trouble.'