“Mr. Buckman, were you always rich?” Max asked, a touch of desperation in his tone.
“Indeed, no. I was a poor farmer boy—made every dollar I have.” The pride of the self-made man was in his loud voice. “I carved my fortune out of this land—the timber, the water power, its rivers and sea.”
“What if some one, when you were a boy, had compelled you to take up medicine, or the law, or to be a minister? Would you?”
“By George, no! I wasn’t the sort for life in a chair. I wanted to be out fighting things; would like to be outside now.”
“Even if you had not gained riches you would have wished to have a voice in planning your life, wouldn’t you?”
“My boy, I don’t want to plan your life for you; I only want to help you carry out your own plans.”
Max was helpless. He felt Mr. Buckman’s present sincerity; yet he knew that one who said, “Go!” or “Come!” to scores of men who obeyed absolutely, would expect obedience from anyone who took his money. Deceit would be the alternative.
Suddenly he realized a little of the reason for Walter’s failure to please his father; unlimited pocket money, the flattery of his fellows, and the easy but fatal path of duplicity.
At last Max spoke resolutely. “Mr. Buckman, something in me makes it impossible to accept your offer. I don’t believe you yourself would think as well of me if I did.”