“Yes, sir. I thought I might run the ranch when I get out of high school.”

“There’s no money in that,” said Will. “Farmers don’t make any money. It’s the man who buys from him and sells. You’ll never make any money farming.” Will knew that Cal was feeling him, testing him, observing him, and he approved of that.

And Cal had made up his mind, but first he asked, “Mr. Hamilton, you haven’t any children, have you?”

“Well, no. And I’m sorry about that. I guess I’m sorriest about that.” And then, “What makes you ask?”

Cal ignored the question. “Would you give me some advice?”

Will felt a glow of pleasure. “If I can, I’ll be glad to. What is it you want to know?”

And then Cal did something Will Hamilton approved even more. He used candor as a weapon. He said, “I want to make a lot of money. I want you to tell me how.”

Will overcame his impulse to laugh. Naïve as the statement was, he didn’t think Cal was naïve. “Everybody wants that,” he said. “What do you mean by a lot of money?”

“Twenty or thirty thousand dollars.”

“Good God!” said Will, and he screeched his chair forward. And now he did laugh, but not in derision. Cal smiled along with Will’s laughter.

Will said, “Can you tell me why you want to make so much?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cal, “I can.” And Cal opened the box of Murads and took out one of the oval cork-tipped cigarettes and lighted it. “I’ll tell you why,” he said.

Will leaned his chair back in enjoyment.

“My father lost a lot of money.”

“I know,” said Will. “I warned him not to try to ship lettuce across the country.”

“You did? Why did you?”

“There were no guarantees,” said Will. “A businessman has to protect himself. If anything happened, he was finished. And it happened. Go on.”

“I want to make enough money to give him back what he lost.”

Will gaped at him. “Why?” he asked.

“I want to.”

Will said, “Are you fond of him?”

“Yes.”

Will’s fleshy face contorted and a memory swept over him like a chilling wind. He did not move slowly over the past, it was all there in one flash, all of the years, a picture, a feeling and a despair, all stopped the way a fast camera stops the world. There was the flashing Samuel, beautiful as dawn with a fancy like a swallow’s flight, and the brilliant, brooding Tom who was dark fire, Una who rode the storms, and the lovely Mollie, Dessie of laughter, George handsome and with a sweetness that filled a room like the perfume of flowers, and there was Joe, the youngest, the beloved. Each one without effort brought some gift into the family.

Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain, shared with no one. Will had concealed his well, laughed loud, exploited perverse virtues, and never let his jealousy go wandering. He thought of himself as slow, doltish, conservative, uninspired. No great dream lifted him high and no despair forced self-destruction. He was always on the edge, trying to hold on to the rim of the family with what gifts he had—care, and reason, application. He kept the books, hired the attorneys, called the undertaker, and eventually paid the bills. The others didn’t even know they needed him. He had the ability to get money and to keep it. He thought the Hamiltons despised him for his one ability. He had loved them doggedly, had always been at hand with his money to pull them out of their errors. He thought they were ashamed of him, and he fought bitterly for their recognition. All of this was in the frozen wind that blew through him.