“Well what? An engineer? A doctor, lawyer, parson?”
“Why not a king now?” scoffed Sam.
“Not enough situations vacant. I mean it, really. What would you be if you were as free to choose as I am?”
“If I were you, you mean.”
“No, not that. If you could choose for yourself as I have.”
Sam rowed on stolidly. “Dunno that it’s much use bothering,” he said indifferently. “I’m doing all right, though it’s not what I’d choose.”
It had seemed an easy, insignificant task to break the news five minutes ago, but either Christopher had taken the wrong approach or it was a stiffer job than he had fancied. He became uneasily conscious his own part in it could not be overlooked, that he was doing something that evilly-disposed persons might even call magnanimous or philanthropic. His face grew red at the thought.
“Sam,” he said as naturally as he could, “it happens you can choose, you see. Choose anything you like. Cæsar’s given me a free hand. We are both to start life just as we like. What shall it be? I’ve told you my choice.” 148
The narrow form in front never slackened its stroke, but pulled on mechanically, and at last spoke a little gruffly.
“Say. You’re kidding me, you know.”