It is not luck but labour that makes a man. Luck, says an American writer, is ever waiting for
something to turn up; labour, with keen eyes and strong will, always turns up something. Luck
lies in bed and wishes the postman would bring him news of a legacy; labour turns out at six
and with busy pen and ringing hammer lays the foundation of competence. Luck whines, labour
watches. Luck relies on chance, labour on character. Luck slips downwards to self-indulgence;
labour strides upwards and aspires to independence. The conviction, therefore, is extending that
diligence is the mother of good luck. In other words, that a man’s success in life will be
proportionate to his efforts, to his industry, to his attention to small things.