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"You can't keep on pressing men out of the same mold forever. Maybe
you can get two or three or a dozen to be as like as peas--and then
nature plays a joke on you. You're the joke on the Foote mold, I
reckon. Maybe they can squeeze you into the form and maybe they
can't. ... But whatever happens is going to be darn unpleasant for
you."
Bonbright nodded. THAT he knew well.
"You've got a choice. You can start in by kicking over the traces--
with the mischief to pay; or you can let the vanished Footes take a
crack at you to see what that can make of you. I advise no boy to run
against his father's wishes. But everybody starts out with something
in him that's his own--individual--peculiar to him. Maybe it's what
the preachers call his soul. Anyhow, it's HIS. Whatever they do to
you, try to hang on to it. Don't let anybody pump it out of you and
fill its room with a standardized solution. Get me?"
"I think so."
"I guess that's about, all from me. Now run along to your dad.


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