"Thanks," said Bonbright, not half comprehending.
"You can't keep on pressing men out of the same mold forever. Maybe you can get two or three or a dozen to be as like as peas—and then nature plays a joke on you. You're the joke on the Foote mold, I reckon. Maybe they can squeeze you into the form and maybe they can't…. But whatever happens is going to be darn unpleasant for you."
Bonbright nodded. THAT he knew well.
"You've got a choice. You can start in by kicking over the traces—with the mischief to pay; or you can let the vanished Footes take a crack at you to see what that can make of you. I advise no boy to run against his father's wishes. But everybody starts out with something in him that's his own—individual—peculiar to him. Maybe it's what the preachers call his soul. Anyhow, it's HIS. Whatever they do to you, try to hang on to it. Don't let anybody pump it out of you and fill its room with a standardized solution. Get me?"
"I think so."
"I guess that's about, all from me. Now run along to your dad. Got any idea what will happen?"
Bonbright studied the rug more than a minute before he answered.
"I think I was right last night. Maybe I didn't go about it the way I should, but I INTENDED right. At least I didn't intend WRONG. Father will be—displeased. I don't think I can explain it to him… "
"Uh!" grunted Lightener.
"So I—I guess I sha'n't try," Bonbright ended. "I think I'll go along and have it over with."