“One’s enough. You’ve allowed yourself to forget your true value.”
“I’m worth whatever I’ll bring.”
The Doctor tossed his head in impatient disdain.
“Pshaw! You’ll never bring what you’re worth any more than some men are worth what they bring. You don’t know how. You never will know.”
“Well, Doctor, I do know that I’m worth more than I ever was before. I’ve learned a thousand things in the last twelvemonth. If I can only get a chance to prove it!” Richling turned red and struck his knee with his fist.
“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Sevier; “that’s your sense, on top. And then you go—in a fit of the merest impatience, as I do suspect—and offer yourself as a deck-hand and as a carriage-driver. That’s your folly, at the bottom. What ought to be done to such a man?” He gave a low, harsh laugh. Richling dropped his eyes. A silence followed.
“You say all you want is a chance,” resumed the Doctor.
“Yes,” quickly answered Richling, looking up.
“I’m going to give it to you.” They looked into each other’s eyes. The Doctor nodded. “Yes, sir.” He nodded again.
“Where did you come from, Richling,—when you came to New Orleans,—you and your wife? Milwaukee?”