"My mother and my sisters send me a basket," he answered. "Of course,
Poskitt, we've got to get all we can out of this world, haven't we? And
I want to get on and to make money. What do you consider the best way
to make money, Poskitt?"
I was so young and irresponsible at that time, so full of knowledge of
having the old farmstead and the old folks and everything behind me,
that I scarcely understood what this boy was talking about. I dare say
I gave him a surly nod, and he went on again--very likely, for aught I
remember, eating the other apple.
"You see, Poskitt," he said, "there's one thing that's certain. A man
must be either a man or a mouse. I won't be a mouse."
I was watching his face--I was at that time a big, ruddy-faced lad, with
limbs that would have done credit to an offspring of Mars and Venus, and
he looked the sort that would eventually end in a shop, with white
cheeks above and a black tie under a sixpenny collar--and a strange
revulsion came to me, farmer and landsman though I was. And I let him
go on.
"I won't be a mouse, Poskitt!" he said, with a certain amount of
determination. "I'll be a man! I'll make money. Now, what do you
think the best way to make money, Poskitt?"