“Child of the fiddlesticks!” interrupted Endicott. “Wherever did you get all that, rot? It sounds as if you had been attending society functions and listening to their twaddle. It doesn’t matter what you are the child of, if you’re a mind to be a man. This is a free country, son, and you can be and climb where you please. Tell me, where did you get all these ideas?”
Michael looked down. He did not wish to answer.
“In a number of places,” he answered evasively.
“Where!”
“For one thing, I’ve been down to the alley where I used to live.” The eyes were looking into his now, and Endicott felt a strange swelling of pride that he had had a hand in the making of this young man.
“Well?”
“I know from what you’ve taken me—I can never be what you are!”
“Therefore you won’t try to be anything? Is that it?”
“Oh, no! I’ll try to be all that I can, but—I don’t belong with you. I’m of another class—”
“Oh, bosh! Cut that out, son! Real men don’t talk like that. You’re a better man now than any of the pedigreed dudes I know of, and as for taints in the blood, I could tell you of some of the sons of great men who have taints as bad as any child of the slums. Young man, you can be whatever you set out to be in this world! Remember that.”