"I don't lie, Mr.——"
"Boller," Anthony supplied. "And please don't badger the boy, Johnson."
"I'm not badgering him," said Johnson Boller; "only that kid's hands look more like a society queen's than an honest workingman's."
"They may be hands designed for better things. David! Tell me, are you quite satisfied to be a plumber's helper, or was it the only thing you could find in the way of employment?"
"It was all I could find," David muttered, glancing at the door. And then, with his quick smile, he rose again. "I'd like to sit here and answer questions, Mr. Fry, but I'll have to run along and——"
Anthony beamed at him over his glasses, fidgeting there with the impatience of youth, standing on one foot and then on the other. Anthony turned and beamed at the bookcase beside him, and selecting a volume, beamed at that, too.
"David," said he, "will you be seated long enough to hear a little poem?"
"What?"
"It is a very short poem, and one of my favorites," Anthony mused, and his stare at David grew quite hypnotic. "Ah, here it is—a little, wonderfully big poem by the late Senator John Ingalls. It is called—'Opportunity.'"
"Aha!" David said rather stupidly.