"Well, I am somebody, ain't I ?" The judge waved this aside with a fat, deprecating hand.
"Oh, in that way! Of course, everybody's somebody--every living, breathing soul.

But what I'm getting at--they'll naturally try to make something out of you, instead of just being kind of a no-account tramp printer." "Ha! Is that so, old small-towner ?" "Shouldn't wonder if they'd want to take you into the bank, mebbe--cashier or something, or manage one of the farms or factories, or set you up in business of some kind.

You might git to be president of the First National." "They might make you a director, too, I suppose." "Well, you can snicker, but stranger things have happened." The judge reflected, seeing himself truly a bank director, wearing his silk hat and frock coat every day--perhaps playing checkers with Harvey D.in the back office at quiet moments.

Bank directing would surely be a suitable occupation for an invalid.

Dave muted the vibrant strings with a hand.
"Listen, Old Flapdoodle! I wouldn't tie myself up in this one-horse bunch of hovels, not if they'd give me the bank and all the money in it and all the Whipple farms and throw in the post office and the jail and the depot.