'That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do with the case. They are
they people you have to do work for, whether you like it or not. They are
your masters. Don't be deceived, Dickie, you aren't strong enough to
trifle with them,--or with yourself, which is more important.

Moreover,--Come back, Binkie: that red daub isn't going
anywhere,--unless you take precious good care, you will fall under the
damnation of the check-book, and that's worse than death. You will get
drunk--you-re half drunk already--on easily acquired money. For that
money and you own infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately turn
out bad work. You'll do quite enough bad work without knowing it. And,
Dickie, as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not going to let you
cut off your nose to spite your face for all the gold in England. That's
settled. Now swear.'

'Don't know, said Dick. 'I've been trying to make myself angry, but I
can't, you're so abominably reasonable. There will be a row on
Dickenson's Weekly, I fancy.'

'Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a weekly paper? It's slow
bleeding of power.'

'It brings in the very desirable dollars,' said Dick, his hands in his
pockets.

Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. 'Why, I thought it was a
man!' said he. 'It's a child.'

'No, it isn't,' said Dick, wheeling quickly. 'You've no notion owhat the