"But he has made good. He has done good work. And he has talent.
Hasn't he?"
"In a way. But there's only one divine spark nowadays—push. He hasn't that. He prefers to let his work speak and push for itself. Poor Davy!"
"Poor Davy! But you'll get him a position, of course."
"There are times," remarked Jim, "when you're as innocent and credulous as Davy himself. It isn't so simple. He's fitted only for his own line. And there are very few men willing to pay a living salary to a greenhorn just for learning a business. In fact, after to-day I'm ready to say there is none."
"Poor Davy!" Mrs. Jim repeated softly. She threaded a needle and bent over her sewing. Jim watched the swift deft fingers proudly; they had acquired the habit of industry in a day when the Blaisdells had had to wrestle with the problem of slender income. After a few minutes' silence she let her sewing fall to her lap.
"I think, Jim, if you'll have the machine around I'll go down-town with you in the morning."
Jim sighed in relief. "You've solved it, then?"
"I want to call on my latest acquisition. You remember asking, 'Why is
Jonathan Radbourne?'"
Jim nodded, with the smile the thought of that gentleman always evoked.
"The answer is, of course—Davy."