He had studied kitchen furnishings and their ways, avoiding only the kettle, since some one else had risen on its steam.
He had tried himself with a pencil and paper, but he had composed nothing even reminiscent of Shakespeare. In fact, he had composed nothing at all.
And at last he became convinced it was the circumstances of his life that were at fault, not he himself. If he had only been a cobbler's son, a tailor's, a barber's!
But alas! he was well-dressed, well-fed, well-housed; sent to a good school. He had a pony of his own and a man to groom him; a bicycle; a watch; every equipment for cricket and football; a dog; pigeons and most of the possessions dear to the heart of a boy.
He had almost finished his dinner to-day when he put a question to the Captain sitting there smiling over his letter.
"Grandfather," he asked, "are you rich?"
His grandfather sat straight immediately, which is to speak of his features as well as his figure.
"Well, what do you think, lad?" he asked.
John shook his head dolefully.
"I think you are," he said, "but are you?"