"Good," said Herr Brockhaus. "Show up at eight. And I'll pay you ten crowns a month the first year, although as a rule volunteers don't get anything."
Keith walked home on air. The sun never shone more brightly than that day. The tall old stone houses along West Long street looked imposing and mysterious, as if they had been magic mansions full of golden opportunities for bright little boys. School seemed years away already. Lector Booklund was a dream.
His mother listened in silence to his wonderful tale. Then she kissed him.
"When you have made a lot of money, will you present me with a new black silk dress," she asked with a suspicious lustre in her eyes.
"Anything you want, mamma," he promised solemnly. "When I begin to make money, you'll never have to worry any more about anything."
Again she had to kiss him.
He was then a little more than halfway through his fifteenth year.
XXV
When his father came home that night, Keith hurried across the room to meet him. "Papa," he cried full of subdued excitement and a swelling of self-importance such as he had not experienced for ever so long. "I have got a job."