“Give him some other work, and let me do that.”
Dr. Sevier started in his seat. “Richling, I can’t do that. I should ruin you. If you drive my carriage”—
“Just for a time, Doctor, till I find something else.”
“No! no! If you drive my carriage in New Orleans you’ll never do anything else.”
“Why, Doctor, there are men standing in the front ranks to-day, who”—
“Yes, yes,” replied the Doctor, impatiently, “I know,—who began with menial labor; but—I can’t explain it to you, Richling, but you’re not of the same sort; that’s all. I say it without praise or blame; you must have work adapted to your abilities.”
“My abilities!” softly echoed Richling. Tears sprang to his eyes. He held out his open palms,—“Doctor, look there.” They were lacerated. He started to rise, but the Doctor prevented him.
“Let me go,” said Richling, pleadingly, and with averted face. “Let me go. I’m sorry I showed them. It was mean and foolish and weak. Let me go.”
But Dr. Sevier kept a hand on him, and he did not resist. The Doctor took one of the hands and examined it. “Why, Richling, you’ve been handling freight!”
“There was nothing else.”