"Declamation! But, hang it, character does count. You and I understand each other; or—at least—I think we do. You are out for your boy."
Sorrell nodded.
"That—kept me going. That—and the hope."
"That someone realized?"
"Yes."
"Oh,—I realized. So it comes to this—I offer you Buck's place,—and I shall think myself lucky to get you. Well,—what about it?"
"There is only one answer to that. But I ought to tell you,—I'm not much good with heavy luggage."
"My dear chap."
He raised his glass.
"You have more in you than a cart-horse. I have my eye on a big good-natured cart-horse. It's your head I want, Stephen, and your heart,—and your grit—my dear chap."
Sorrell woke to see white clouds moving in a blue sky, for he slept with blind up and his window wide open, but on this particular morning he lay for five minutes looking at the sky.
"I'm first porter at the Pelican."
He smiled. What a very humble pride was this, and how modest a triumph, and yet he had had to work and struggle for it and to suffer.
Fragments of Thomas Roland's philosophy drifted through his head.
"It is not so much the job, but the way you do the job, that matters."
Yes, wasn't that true. That much misused and obscured phrase—"The dignity of labour!" But the dignity was in the soul of the labourer, not in the matter he worked upon, and a man who cleaned boots with love and care was worthy of the respect of kings. To be respected for the way you did your job, to be respected by a man like Thomas Roland.
This little room of his had a new atmosphere, a suggestion of homeliness and of security. He foresaw it be-
