"It's the same answer, then?" Bibbs's voice was serious, almost
tremulous.

"Damnation!" Sheridan roared. "Did you ever hear the word Prosperity,
you ninny? Did you ever hear the word Ambition? Did you ever hear
the word PROGRESS?"

He flung himself into a chair after the outburst, his big chest
surging, his throat tumultuous with gutteral incoherences. "Now
then," he said, huskily, when the anguish had somewhat abated,
"what do you want to do?"

"Sir?"

"What do you WANT to do, I said."

Taken by surprise, Bibbs stammered. "What--what do--I--what--"

"If I'd let you do exactly what you had the whim for, what would you
do?"

Bibbs looked startled; then timidity overwhelmed him--a profound
shyness. He bent his head and fixed his lowered eyes upon the toe
of his shoe, which he moved to and fro upon the rug, like a culprit
called to the desk in school.

"What would you do? Loaf?"

"No, sir." Bibbs's voice was almost inaudible, and what little sound
it made was unquestionably a guilty sound. "I suppose I'd--I'd--"