"Don't shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the real truth."
"Well, then, I hate the tan-yard."
Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed.
"But, Phineas, don't imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a worse thing. It's wicked to hate what wins one's bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because it's disagreeable."
"You are a wise lad of your age, John."
"Now don't you be laughing at me." (But I was not, I was in solemn earnest). "And don't think I'm worse than I am; and especially that I'm not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the world—the first I ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb."
"I should rather believe so," answered I, very confidently. "But you seem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things."
"Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one's thoughts travel fast enough lying on this bark-heap—faster than indoors. I often wish I could read—that is, read easily. As it is, I have nothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, and what I should like to be."
"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to your master's business, should you like to be a tanner?"
He paused—his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, resolutely, "I would like to be anything that was honest and honourable. It's a notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not make him—he makes his trade. That is—but I know I can't put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head yet—I'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this—that whether I like it or not, I'll stick to the tanning as long as I can."