“Well,” said Ginger the optimist, “he can do anythin’, so it ought to be pretty easy to get him a job.”
“Yes,” said William, “we’d better start on it at once, ’cause we want to go out shootin’ to-morrow.”
“My bow’s broke,” said Henry sadly.
“Lend you my pea-shooter,” said Douglas.
“Let’s think of the things he could be,” said William, “there’s lots of ’em.”
“A doctor or a lawyer or a clergyman,” said Henry dreamily. “Let’s make him a clergyman.”
“No, he couldn’t be any of those,” said William irritably, “those are special sorts of people. They start turnin’ into those before they leave school. But he could be a gardener or a butler or—or a motor car driver——”
“Shuvver,” put in Ginger with an air of superiority.
“Motor car driver,” repeated William firmly, “or—or a sort of man nurse. I read in a book once about a man what once had a sort of man nurse—he sort of went queer in his head—the man, not the man nurse—an’ the man nurse looked after him—or he could be a sort of man what looks after people’s clothes——”
“A valley,” put in Ginger.