Well, Dad," said Jack, rising and standing near his father's chair, "as
I said before, I'll make a go at it, but don't count too much on me."

"I am counting a lot on you. You are all I have now." The father's
voice ended in a husky whisper. The boy swallowed the rising lump in
his throat but could find no more words to go on with. But in his heart
there was the resolve that he would make an honest try to do for his
father's sake what he would not for his own.

But before a month had gone he was heartily sick of the office. It was
indoors, and the petty fussing with trivial details irked him. Accuracy
was a sine qua non of successful office work, and accuracy is either a
thing of natural gift or is the result of long and painful discipline,
and neither by nature nor by discipline had Jack come into the
possession of this prime qualification for a successful office man. His
ledger wellnigh brought tears to old Wickes' eyes and added a heavy load
to his day's work. Not that old Wickes grudged the extra burden, much
less made any complaint; rather did he count it joy to be able to cover
from other eyes than his own the errors that were inevitably to be found
in Jack's daily work.

Had it seemed worth while, Jack would have disciplined himself to
accuracy. But what was the end of it all? A larger plant with more
machines to buy and more men to work them and to be overseen and to be
paid, a few more figures in a Bank Book--what else? Jack's tastes were
simple. He despised the ostentation of wealth in the accumulation of
mere things. He had only pity for the plunger and for the loose liver
contempt. Why should he tie himself to a desk, a well appointed desk it
is true, but still a desk, in a four-walled room, a much finer room than
his father had ever known, but a room which became to him a cage.
Why? Of course, there was his father--and Jack wearily turned to his
correspondence basket, sick of the sight of paper and letter heads and
cost forms and production reports. For his father's sake, who had only
him, he would carry on. And carry on he did, doggedly, wearily, bored to
death, but sticking it. The reports from the works were often ominous.
Things were not going well. There was an undercurrent of unrest among
the men.

"I don't wonder at it," said Jack to old Wickes one day, when the
bookkeeper set before him the week's pay sheet and production sheet,
side by side. "After all, why should the poor devils work for us?"