The habitual gloom of the private secretary was lightened by a grin.
"Went on the loose; had with him about five hundred dollars belonging to
the firm; he's with Isaacs & Sons now, shoe people on Sixth Avenue. Met
a woman, and woke up without the money. The next morning he offered to
make good, but Isaacs called in a policeman. When they looked into it,
they found the boy had been drunk. They tried to withdraw the charge,
but he'd been committed. Now, the probation officer is trying to get
the judge to suspend sentence. A letter from you, sir, would--"
It was evident the mind of the great man was elsewhere. Young men who,
drunk or sober, spent the firm's money on women who disappeared before
sunrise did not appeal to him. Another letter submitted that morning had
come from his art agent in Europe. In Florence he had discovered the
Correggio he had been sent to find. It was undoubtedly genuine, and he
asked to be instructed by cable. The price was forty thousand dollars.
With one eye closed, and the other keenly regarding the inkstand, Mr.
Thorndike decided to pay the price; and with the facility of long
practice dismissed the Correggio, and snapped his mind back to the
present.
"Spear had a letter from us when he left, didn't he?" he asked. "What he
has developed into, _since_ he left us--" he shrugged his shoulders. The
secretary withdrew the letter, and slipped another in its place.
"Homer Firth, the landscape man," he chanted, "wants permission to use
blue flint on the new road, with turf gutters, and to plant silver firs
each side. Says it will run to about five thousand dollars a mile."
"No!" protested the great man firmly, "blue flint makes a country place
look like a cemetery. Mine looks too much like a cemetery now. Landscape
gardeners!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Their only idea is to insult
nature. The place was better the day I bought it, when it was running
wild; you could pick flowers all the way to the gates." Pleased that it
should have recurred to him, the great man smiled. "Why, Spear," he
exclaimed, "always took in a bunch of them for his mother. Don't you
remember, we used to see him before breakfast wandering around the
grounds picking flowers?" Mr. Thorndike nodded briskly. "I like his
taking flowers to his mother."
"He _said_ it was to his mother," suggested the secretary gloomily.
"Well, he picked the flowers, anyway," laughed Mr. Thorndike. "He didn't
pick our pockets. And he had the run of the house in those days. As far
as we know," he dictated, "he was satisfactory. Don't say more than
that."