'I'm your guardian angel,' I replied. 'I'm the fellow who's going
to take you in hand and make you a little ray of sunshine about
the home. I know your type backwards. I've been in America and
studied it on its native asphalt. You superfatted millionaire kids
are all the same. If Dad doesn't jerk you into the office before
you're out of knickerbockers, you just run to seed. You get to
think you're the only thing on earth, and you go on thinking it
till one day somebody comes along and shows you you're not, and
then you get what's coming to you--good and hard.'

He began to speak, but I was on my favourite theme, one I had
studied and brooded upon since the evening when I had received a
certain letter at my club.

'I knew a man,' I said, 'who started out just like you. He always
had all the money he wanted: never worked: grew to think himself a
sort of young prince. What happened?'

He yawned.

'I'm afraid I'm boring you,' I said.

'Go on. Enjoy yourself,' said the Little Nugget.

'Well, it's a long story, so I'll spare you it. But the moral of
it was that a boy who is going to have money needs to be taken in
hand and taught sense while he's young.'

He stretched himself.