“Yes, sir,” said Eddy, putting his hands by his side with the air of a docile little schoolboy eager to obey.
It was all Rowland could do not to laugh, but he was scandalised at himself for his levity, and forbore.
“There is a choice of two or three things,” said Rowland. “You might go out to my overseer in India, and try what you can do on the railways. There is nothing succeeds so well there as a man who knows how to manage men.”
Eddy produced a little sickly smile, but he did not make any response.
“Or you might try ranching out in Canada or the Wild West: or the same kind of thing, though they only call it stock-keeping, in Australia: or—— It really does not matter what it is, if it’s good hard work. I make a stand upon that. Good, hard work,” said Mr. Rowland; “it’s the way of salvation for you spendthrift young men.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eddy again, with his schoolboy air, but in rueful tones.
“Man alive!” cried Rowland, “can’t you see what a grand thing it would be for you? your thoughts taken off all your follies and vanities, your hands full of something wholesome to do, yourself removed out of the way of temptation. What could you desire more?”
“Ah!” said Eddy, “I’m afraid I’d desire a different body and a different soul, only such trifles as these. I’m a product of corrupt civilization, I am not the thing that lives and thrives that way. Probably out there I should gravitate to a gambling saloon or a drinking bar.”
“You don’t drink, Eddy?” cried Rowland, with an alarmed countenance.
“No, I don’t drink—not now,” said Eddy, with sudden gravity; “but what I might do after six months of a cowboy’s life I don’t know.”