"I am not so sure about that. What sort of work would you like?"
"Any sort."
Mr. Metcalf went into another room and presently returned with some oblong pieces of cardboard. These had a checked surface, and upon these checks were painted or stained partial patterns, designs for the carpets woven in the mills.
"Your father is an artist. Have you learned anything about his work, or of coloring?"
"Something, of course, though very little. I would not be an artist."
"Indeed? But there are artisans whose work is simple, mechanical, and reasonably lucrative. Our designers, for instance, make an excellent living. Do you see these numbers at the sides of the patterns?"
"Yes."
"They are for the guidance of the weavers. The threads of the carpets are numbered, and these numbers correspond. Therefore, the weaver can make his carpet from his pattern with mathematical exactness. We require many such copies of the original design. If you would like to try this sort of work, I will give you a temporary job. The boy who usually does it is ailing, and I have allowed him a vacation. The wages are small, no more than Amy earns, but the work isn't difficult, and is the only thing I have now, suitable for you."
Incidentally the gentleman's eyes turned toward Hallam's crutches leaning against the arm of the chair where he sat; but instead of feeling humiliated by the glance, as the sensitive cripple often did, this casual one fired his heart with a new ambition. He recalled the words of the surgeon, and was no longer angry with them.