As he spoke the air seemed to throb with the passion of his phrases. His face was uplifted to the sky. The Major remembered a picture in the corridor of the Library of Congress—the Boy of Winander—— Oh, the boys of the world—those wonderful boys who had been drawn out from among the rest, set apart for a time, and in whose hands now rested the fate of nations!
"It is epic," he said, slowly. "Take your time for it."
"It's too big," said Randy slowly, "and I am not a genius—— But it is my idea, all right, and some day, perhaps, I shall make it go."
"You must make it clear to yourself. Then you can make it clear to others."
"Yes," Randy agreed, "and now you can see why I am sitting up nights."
"Yes. How did you happen to think of it, Paine?"
"I've been turning a lot of things over in my mind——; what the other fellows are doing about their jobs. There's that boy at the butcher's, and a lot of us went over to do big things. And now we have come back to the little things. Why, there's Dalton's valet—Kemp—taking orders from that—cad."
His scorn seemed to cut into the night. "And I am selling cars—— I sold one to-day to an old
darkey, and I felt my grandsires turn in their graves. But I like it."
The Major sat up. "Your liking it is the biggest thing about you, Paine."