“Going to lock up now.”  That sounded gratifyingly important.  Yan stepped outside.  Rad locked the door, put the key in his pocket, then turning, he said with cold, brutal emphasis: 

“Now you keep out of my workshop from this on. You have nothing to do with it.  It’s mine.  I got the permission to make it.”  All of which he could prove, and did.

* * * * *

Alner, the youngest, was eighteen months younger than Yan, and about the same size, but the resemblance stopped there.  His chief aim in life was to be stylish.  He once startled his mother by inserting into his childish prayers the perfectly sincere request:  “Please, God, make me an awful swell, for Jesus sake.”  Vanity was his foible, and laziness his sin.

He could be flattered into anything that did not involve effort.  He fairly ached to be famous.  He was consuming with desire to be pointed out for admiration as the great this, that or the other thing—­it did not matter to him what, as long as he could be pointed out.  But he never had the least idea of working for it.  At school he was a sad dunce.  He was three grades below Yan and at the bottom of his grade.  They set out for school each day together, because that was a paternal ruling; but they rarely reached there together.  They had nothing in common.  Yan was full of warmth, enthusiasm, earnestness and energy, but had a most passionate and ungovernable temper.  Little put him in a rage, but it was soon over, and then an equally violent reaction set in, and he was always anxious to beg forgiveness and make friends again.  Alner was of lazy good temper and had a large sense of humour.  His interests were wholly in the playground.  He had no sympathy with Yan’s Indian tastes—­“Indians in nasty, shabby clothes.  Bah!  Horrid!” he would scornfully say.

These, then, were his adjoining brothers.

What wonder that Yan was daily further from them.

IV

The Book

But the greatest event of Yan’s then early life now took place.  His school readers told him about Wilson and Audubon, the first and last American naturalists.  Yan wondered why no other great prophet had arisen.  But one day the papers announced that at length he had appeared.  A work on the Birds of Canada, by ..., had come at last, price one dollar.

Money never before seemed so precious, necessary and noble a thing.  “Oh! if I only had a dollar.”  He set to work to save and scrape.  He won marbles in game, swopped marbles for tops, tops for jack-knives as the various games came around with strange and rigid periodicity.  The jack-knives in turn were converted into rabbits, the rabbits into cash of small denominations.  He carried wood for strange householders; he scraped and scraped and saved the scrapings; and got, after some months, as high as ninety cents.  But there was a dread fatality about that last dime.  No one seemed to have any more odd jobs; his commercial luck deserted him.  He was burnt up with craving for that book.  None of his people took interest enough in him to advance the cash even at the ruinous interest (two or three times cent per cent) that he was willing to bind himself for.  Six weeks passed before he achieved that last dime, and he never felt conscience-clear about it afterward.