“Sometimes—well, perhaps nearly always, but there’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Let me hear the rest of your story.”
“Sometimes I’m late getting home. We get interested, but that’s nothing. I’m almost a man. Five hours’ sleep is enough for me.”
A long pause followed, broken finally by Roger, who said, calmly, “You have given an account of your time. What is wrong with it?”
“It’s all wrong,” blurted the boy, “and you know it.”
“I haven’t said so.”
“But you feel it. You’re just like Grandma—bother it! Don’t I know she thinks I ought to spend my evenings at home, reading about banking, so as to work myself up to a president’s chair?”
“Don’t you get any time for reading through the day?”
“How can I?” said the boy, eloquently, “when I was almost brought up out-of-doors, and as soon as the bank closes every square inch of flesh of me is squealing to get on the river. Now what do you think I ought to do?”