"Look here," he said, "why can't we go halves in this car business? It will pay our expenses, and we can finish our law course at the University."
"Law? Oh, look here, Randy, I thought you had given that up."
"I haven't, and why should you? We will finish, and some day we will open an office together."
The Major, whistling softly, listened and said nothing.
"I have been thinking a lot about it," Randy went on, "and I can't see much of a future ahead of me. Not the kind of future that our families are expecting of us. You and I have got to stand for something, Truxton, or some day the world will be saying that all the great men died with Thomas Jefferson."
The Major went on with his lilting tune. What a pair they were, these lads! Randy, afire with his dreams, and rather tragic in his dreaming. Truxton, light as a feather—laughing.
"Why can't we give to the world as much as the men who have gone before us?" Randy was demanding. "Are we going to take everything from our ancestors, and give nothing to our descendants?"
Truxton chuckled. "By Jove," he said, "now that I come to think of it, I am the head of a family—there's Fiddle-dee-dee, and I shall have to reckon with Fiddle-dee-dee's children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren—who will expect that my portrait will hang on the wall at Huntersfield."