“I’m sorry,” he said, “very sorry, old man. But even for the sake of a possible Davoren of the next generation, I can’t accept your offer.”
“Why?”
“To begin with it’s too generous.”
“It’s my desire—for my own sake.”
“In any case I’m not the man for the job. I couldn’t do it any more than you could yourself. Fancy me a country gentleman! M.F.H. I suppose, and I can’t even ride! I should start comic and become pathetic. I’m only a sort of ticket o’ leave man still, and they’d want to make me a magistrate!”
I disagreed with him, but saw that argument was useless and abandoned this favourite project with regret.
“Have you any plan yourself?” I asked.
“Well, you see, it’s the old story. Dry land burns my feet.”
“But you can’t go on always—before the mast.”
“No. I can take my master’s certificate.”