trade does not make him--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I
can't put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own
head yet--I'm only a lad. However, it all comes to this--that
whether I like it or not, I'll stick to the tanning as long as I
can."

"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as he
stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting
bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling--
"Nevertheless, John, it's my opinion that you might be anything you
liked."

He laughed. "Questionable that--at least at present. Whatever I may
be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works
in your father's tan-yard--John Halifax, and very much at your
service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher."

Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow
so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily
recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However,
that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like
many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence--
Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.

The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part
with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.

"How do you mean?"

"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?"