“Goliath doesn’t always fall at the hand of the son of Jesse, my little David,” said I quietly.  I also had dreamed dreams and seen visions.

“That’s about what my father says,” said the boy.  “He wants me to be a successful man, a ‘safe and sane citizen.’  He thinks a gentleman should practise his profession decently and in order.  But to believe, as I do, that you can wipe out corruption, that you can tackle poverty the same as you would any other disease, and prevent it, as smallpox and yellow fever are prevented, he looks upon as madness and a waste of time.”

“He has had sorrow and experience, and he is kind and charitable, as well as wise,” said I.

“That’s exactly where the hardest part comes in for us younger fellows.  It isn’t bucking the bad that makes the fight so hard:  it’s bucking the wrong-idea’d good.  Padre, one good man on the wrong side is a stumbling-block for the stoutest-hearted reformer ever born.  It’s men like my father, who regard the smooth scoundrel that runs this town as a necessary evil, and tolerate him because they wouldn’t soil their hands dealing with him, that do the greatest injury to the state.  I tell you what, it wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of the devil, if it weren’t for the angels!”

“And how,” said I, ironically, “do you propose to set about smoothing the rough and making straight the crooked, my son?”

“Flatten ’em out,” said he, briefly.  “Politics.  First off I’m going to practice general law; then I’ll be solicitor-general for this county.  After that, I shall be attorney-general for the state.  Later I may be governor, unless I become senator instead.”

“Well,” said I, cautiously, “you’ll be so toned down by that time that you might make a very good governor indeed.”

“I couldn’t very well make a worse one than some we’ve already had,” said the boy sternly.  There was something of the accusing dignity of a young archangel about him.  I caught a glimpse of that newer America growing up about us—­an America gone back to the older, truer, unbuyable ideals of our fathers.

“I guess you’d better tell me good-by now, Padre,” said he, presently.  “And bless me, please—­it’s a pretty custom.  I won’t see you again, for you’ll be saying mass when I’m running for my train.  I’ll go tell John Flint good-by, too.”

He went over and rapped on the window, through which we could see Flint sitting at his table, his head bent over a book.

“Good-by, John Flint” said Laurence.  “Good luck to you and your leggy friends!  When I come back you’ll probably have mandibles, and you’ll greet me with a nip, in pure Bugese.”

“Good-by,” said John Flint, lifting his head.  Then, with unwonted feeling:  “I’m horrible sorry you’ve got to go—­I’ll miss you something fierce.  You’ve been very kind—­thank you.”

“Mind you take care of the Padre,” said the boy, waiving the thanks with a smile.  “Don’t let him work too hard.”