tomed to smile and kiss his mother, force a cheery "Hello, Dad! How's it been?" for his father, press on him some beguiling magazine, and then, after bolting food he was too weary to enjoy, his school-books displaced the dishes on the table before him. But this study was seldom finished. Usually it merely ended with the youth's face down and fast asleep upon an open page.
"It's too much—too much for you, Sonny!" his mother would urge, almost weeping as she roused and dragged him off to bed.
"No! No!" George would protest, shamefaced. "I wasn't asleep—honest. I got through and just laid down my head for a minute."
The boy was tired, dog-tired all the time, and yet there was a compensating thrill to it all—if he could just hold out. He was getting an education; he was supporting his parents; he was learning wonderful lessons not taught in school, and opportunity, the whole wide field of business and opportunity, was opening before him most astonishingly. Take, for instance, the case of Tony Colombo—Tony who kept the boot-black stand next door to George, with four chairs operated by himself and one assistant. Tony one day got into trouble with the officers of the law over a matter of no concern to this narrative and had immediate necessity for $200, with also the prospect that he might not be able to give his
