hy factory chimneys are built high. He
knows how a boat tacks against the wind. And he knows that his father
knows nothing of these things.

But I would rather have Harrington's boy quiz me on things that I can
pretend are not worth knowing, like the seeds in an apple, than on
things that cannot be waved aside. I tried to explain one day how the
revolution of the earth about the sun produces the seasons, and I
succeeded only in proving that when it is winter in New York it is
daylight in Buenos Ayres. Thereupon, Jack asked me what an unearned
increment was. When I finished he said his teacher had told them that
views like those I had just expressed were common among ill-informed
people. The following day he came in and said to Harrington, "Papa, name
six female characters in Dickens, in three minutes." Well, Harrington
did, but it was a strain, and in order to make up the total he had to
count in the anonymous, elderly, single woman whom Mr. Pickwick
surprised in her bedroom. Jack insisted that, as she was nameless, it
was not fair to call her a character, but Harrington put his foot down
and refused to argue the matter.

And as I sit there before the fire, smiling over Harrington and Jack and
myself, my cigar goes out, and I signal Thomas to bring me another.
Thomas has the ascetic countenance of a tragedian, and the repose of an
archbishop. Now, Thomas--and it comes to me with a shock--what do I
know about Thomas, the man, as distinguished from the hired servant whom
I have been aware of this year and more? Is he married or single? And if
he is married, do his children resent their father's wearing livery?
Does Thomas himself like to be a servant? Are there ideals and
speculations behind that close-shaven mask? Has he any views on the
future life? Has he ever thought on the subject of vivisection? Does he
vote the Republican ticket? Does he earn a decent wage?

I could only answer, with an aching sense of isolation, with the wistful
longing of one who looks into unfathomable depths, that I didn't know.
Oh, Thomas, fellow man, brother! We have rubbed elbows for months and I
do not know whether you are a man or only a lackey; whether you drink
all night, or pray; whether you love me or hate me. How can you hold the
cigar box so impassively, so single-mindedly?

I said to myself that I would make amends to Thomas, that it was never
too late. And, quietly, genially, I asked him, "How do you like your
place here, Thoma