"Help you to become God Almighty?" he chuckled.
"No, sir, help me to be the president of the Great South Midland and Atlantic Railroad."
"Then you'll be satisfied with the lesser office, eh?"
"I shall, sir, if—if there isn't anything better."
Again he slapped his thigh and again he chuckled. "But I've got one boy already. I don't want another," he protested. "Good Lord, one is bad enough when he's not your own."
Whether or not he really supposed that I was a serious applicant for adoption, I cannot say, but his face put on immediately an harassed and suffering look.
"Have you ever had a twinge of gout, boy?" he enquired.
"No, sir."
"Then you're lucky—damned lucky. When you go to bed to-night you get down on your knees and thank the Lord that you've never had a twinge of gout. You can even eat a strawberry without feeling it, I reckon?"
I replied humbly that I certainly could if I ever got the chance.