them into
a glow and mood to enjoy themselves. Christopher called for a rest.
Sam looked over his shoulder.

"Tired?"

"No," responded the other, laughing, "but we didn't come down just to
row 'eyes in boat'; I want to look at the world."

"Nothing but green fields and trees and cows."

"I like cows."

"I don't."

Nevertheless he desisted from work, and they drifted on. Christopher
was bubbling over with a great secret that was to be the crowning
episode of the day. It would be fatal to divulge it too early, so he
plunged into friendly discussions and they rowed on happy in the
physical exertion, the clean, fresh air and the smiling earth.

It was not till after lunch that Christopher decided the great matter
must be broached, to allow time to discuss it in full detail. They had
changed places and he was stroke now. He pulled with a slower swing
but greater power than Sam and for some time bent to his work in
silence, thinking over what he was going to say. He took a rapid
mental survey of Sam's present life and future, of what it held and
more especially of what it did not hold; the limitations, the lack of
opportunity, the struggle for existence that left no room for
ambitions or hopes. And he, with Caesar's help, was going to change all
that, and open the gates of the world wide for him. If the thought
were exhilarating, it had also a serious side. He was not afraid, he
was too young for that, but he had sense enough to know it was a big
thing to uproot a life and plant it in a new spot more congenial to
growth.

Mr. Aston's words to him that morning came back with puzzling
insistence. "Remember," he had said in his kindly way, "no two people
see life through the same glasses. Don't be surprised if Sam's make
you squint." What did he mean? It was just because he, Christopher,
was not sure of Sam's real ambition that he was to be given the
choice. He amused himself while cogitating over it, tasting like an
epicure the flavour of the good wine to be drunk presently. Sam
complained he was a bad stroke, and they changed again. This better
suited his plans. He could see the town boy's thin sloping shoulders
bend evenly before him. Sam was no athlete in build, but his passion
for rowing had stood him in good stead and developed muscle and
endurance.

"He'll choose something in boats," thought Christopher, mentally
picturing Sam as captain of a great liner and then as an alternative,
as an admiral of the Fleet