“Sam’s got a head on his shoulders. He’s really awfully sharp. He could be anything he liked,” urged Christopher. “Could you help him, Cæsar?”
“You might if you liked.”
“Make what I like of him?”
“No. Most emphatically, no. Make what he likes of himself. A crossing sweeper, if he fancies that. Buy him a crossing and a broom, you know.”
“But really, what he likes; not joking?”
“Sober earnest. I’ll see to-morrow, and tell you. Now, will you kindly find that place you were looking for when we were so inopportunely interrupted with irrelevant moralisings.”
“I won’t do it again,” said his father deprecatingly. “I apologise.”
Aymer gravely bowed his head and the subject was dropped. But when they were alone that evening, Mr. Aston reverted to it. 143
“What are you going to do with Sam Sartin?” he asked, “and why are you doing it?”
“Sam must settle the first question himself,” said Aymer, idly drawing appalling pictures of steamrollers on the fly-leaf of a book, “as to the second—” he paused in his drawing, put the book down and turned to his father.