mother, telling me all his wild, hopeful plans, discussing with me how
I was to lodge at Oxford, to what particular branches of study and of
sport I was to give my preference, speaking always with such catching
confidence that I came to regard my sojourn in this brick and mortar
prison as only a question of months.

One day, talking of this future, and laughing as we walked briskly.
through the shrill streets, I told him the words my mother had
said--long ago, as it seemed to me, for life is as a stone rolling
down-hill, and moves but slowly at first; she and I sitting on the
moss at the foot of old "Jacob's Folly"--that he was our Prince
fighting to deliver us from the grim castle called "Hard Times,"
guarded by the dragon Poverty.

My father laughed and his boyish face flushed with pleasure.

"And she was right, Paul," he whispered, pressing my small hand in
his--it was necessary to whisper, for the street where we were was
very crowded, but I knew that he wanted to shout. "I will fight him
and I will slay him." My father made passes in the air with his
walking-stick, and it was evident from the way they drew aside that
the people round about fancied he was mad. "I will batter down the
iron gates and she shall be free. I will, God help me, I will."

The gallant gentleman! How long and how bravely he fought! But in
the end it was the Dragon triumphed, the Knight that lay upon the
ground, his great heart still. I have read how, with the sword of
Honest Industry, one may always conquer this grim Dragon. But such
was in foolish books. In truth, only with the sword of Chicanery and
the stout buckler of Unscrupulousness shall you be certain of victory