HE walked into Colonel Willetts's office with a pugnacious
consciousness of being twenty years older than on the day before. He
would talk business in a business-like way. He was prepared to fight, to
overcome opposition, to convince the colonel against the colonel's will.
“Hello, Tommy!” called out Colonel Willetts, cheerily. He was standing
beside the stock ticker. “Have a seat, my boy.”
Tommy was glad at the welcome, but also subtly disappointed. It is
easier to fight a fighter than to fight an amiable friend.
“Good afternoon, Colonel. I came to--”
“Just wait a minute until I see the closing price of my latest mistake,
won't you?” He ran the tape through his fingers. “Not so bad! A kind
Providence may yet save me. Now what can I do for you?”
“Providence has heard your prayers, Colonel. I came to show you that
your plain duty is to become a stockholder of the Tecumseh Motor Company
with the rest of your family.”
“They tell me the younger the shark the more voracious it is.”
“Colonel,” said Tommy, earnestly, because the colonel was not taking
Tommy's mission very seriously, “ten years from to-day, when New York
real estate--”
“Hold on. I know disaster is approaching this fair metropolis and
skipping Dayton.” The colonel held up his hands. “I succumb!”
“The entire two thousand shares, Colonel, of course,” said Tommy,
prepared to compromise. “Sit down, young man.”
Tommy sat down and looked expectant. Colonel Willetts pursued,
seriously: “I've looked over your papers again. You vouch for their
accuracy?” The colonel had put on his martial air and managed to look
not only stem but cold. “Yes, sir, I do!” answered Tommy, firmly. “You
are sure of your figures?”
“Absolutely. But I'd like to call your attention to the fact that the
company's plans have for an object not only to solve certain problems
among our wage-earners, but also to insure the permanency of our
dividends on a basis of eight per cent, per annum. There may be extra
dividends, but we won't promise more than--”
“It is an iron-clad rule of mine never to have business dealings with
personal friends. I prefer to make a gift of the amount than to regard
it as an investment.” The colonel was frowning quite fiercely.
Tommy's heart leaped, for Colonel Willetts was a very rich man indeed.
But he said, “A gift is, of course, out of the question.”
“That is why I have to break my rule two or three times a year. You wish
friends to be interested in your Mr. Thompson's experiments. I don't
blame you. No, I don't! But they might prove rather expensive. Yes, yes,
I know you think they will be successful. Rivington telephoned to
me that you were going to see Mead and Jim Wilson, and a few other
unfortunate fathers of chums, but I'll save you the trouble. I shall
make them think the experiment worth trying and we'll take a sporting
chance. You owe it to us to warn us in time if things don't go right.”
Tommy hesitated. Loyalty was due to whom? Then his doubts cleared.
Thompson, the wizard, wanted him to work for both the men and the
stockholders! That would keep Tommy from doing injustice to either. That
was Thompson's reason undoubtedly.
“I shall watch your interests as if they were mine--no, I'll watch more
carefully.” Tommy spoke with decision.
“I have inquired about your company's standing. I find its rating high.
Your father--” The colonel caught himself abruptly.
“Yes, sir?” Tommy's lips came together while Willetts walked to his desk
and went through the motions of looking for some papers.
Then the colonel pursued: “Your father told me what you had been doing.
He evidently thinks as much of Thompson as you do. And he gave me some
confidential reports from the Metropolitan Bank's correspondents in
Dayton. I--I guess the money is safe enough.” He looked at Tommy a
trifle dubiously, but before Tommy could reassure him he went on,
lightly, “And Marion wants me to send Rivington out there to have a
miracle performed on him.”
“I wish he'd come,” said Tommy, eagerly.
“I don't!” said the colonel, shortly. “He is no black sheep in need of
reform and--I don't mean to insinuate that you are, Tommy; but Rivington
is all the son I've got, and I need him here, where his business
interests will be. I expect him to come into the office next year.
There's plenty of time.”
The colonel nodded to show that he knew what he was doing. He loved his
son, and at times was really grateful that Rivington had no alarming
fondness for disreputable things. Rivington was a gentleman and would
behave accordingly.
He was a Willetts and, therefore, must concern himself with conserving
his inheritance. It did not occur to the colonel that Rivington might
live decently all his life and withal be a non-producer. If any one had
said that to the colonel, doubtless the colonel would have said that
Rivington did not need to be a producer. Tommy was faintly conscious
that if Rivington worked trader Thompson for a few years he would
greatly increase his own usefulness, but he merely said:
“I can't help wishing that Rivington and I might be together, Colonel.”
“I understand, my boy,” agreed the colonel, rather too hastily, Tommy
thought. “Well, I'll take the two thousand shares. Have the stock put in
the name of John B. Kendrick, my confidential clerk, who will give you
a check for the two hundred thousand dollars. I'll apportion the stock
later. I am too busy just now, and I know you are anxious to return to
Dayton.”
Tommy's joy over his success was a complex affair. He had a boy's
immaturity, but he could think straight enough. His father had done the
obvious thing in having the bank's correspondents telegraph confidential
reports about the Tecumseh's standing and reputation to New
York business men, who would attach greater importance to such
information than to Tommy's reports about Thompson, who really was the
Tecumseh. Moreover, it was friendship and not eloquence or hard work
that had persuaded Colonel Willetts to buy the stock. Thus there could
be no sense of personal triumph. At all events, the deal was closed, his
work was done, and Thompson's wish would be gratified, and Tommy would
do his best to make it a safe investment for Colonel Willetts and his
friends.
“I am much obliged, Colonel,” he said, trying to speak with the proper
composure.
“Not to me, Tommy; to--er--Marion. Gad! how that girl boomed Dayton.”
The colonel looked quickly at Tommy.
Everything else vanished from Tommy's mind, even the great work! He
would tell her--But first he must say something to her father.
“I hope she--and you--will never be sorry you've done this. It means a
lot to me and--”
“What commission do you get, Tommy?” asked the colonel, quizzically.
“None,” answered Tommy, quickly.
“Nonsense! You are entitled to at least two and a half per cent, and
more--”
“It was a personal favor to me,” said Tommy, “because Mr. Thompson
thought I could work better knowing I had interested friends in the
company.”
The colonel rose to his feet. “Mr. Leigh, I have a favor to ask of you.
If you think I am entitled to your protection and good wishes--” He
paused and looked questioningly at Tommy.
“You are,” said the puzzled Tommy, quite earnestly.
“Then keep that damned man Thompson out of New York. Gad! he'd have us
paying him for breathing. Now if you don't mind I'll write some letters
and sign your check. You can have it certified if you wish.”
The colonel rang a bell. Mr. Kendrick appeared. He was a tall,
well-built man, neatly dressed in black.
“Kendrick, this is Mr. Thomas Leigh. Make out a check for two hundred
thousand dollars, payable to the Tecumseh Motor Company, and write a
letter to--Got a middle name, Tommy?”
“Yes, sir--Francis.”
“To Mr. Thomas Francis Leigh, instructing him to have the two thousand
shares of Tecumseh Motor Company which he has sold to me put in your
name. I shall give instructions as to their disposition later. Good-by,
Tommy. Confine your future visits to my residence. You are an expensive
luxury down-town, son.” And Colonel Willetts shook hands warmly.
“Is he always like that?” Tommy asked Kendrick in the outer office.
“Always--when he buys something of which he is doubtful, to make himself
think it will come out all right,” answered Kendrick, unsmilingly, and
proceeded to make out a check for the two hundred thousand dollars as
though it were for two hundred. A wonderful thing, this game of being
rich, thought Tommy, to whom riches suddenly meant the slaying of a
secret and the ability to make others happy.
Kendrick took the check in to the colonel for his signature, returned
with it, sat down at a typewriter, and himself wrote the letter to
Tommy, read it carefully, put the carbon copy of it away in a file
marked “T,” signed the original with the colonel's name, “per J. B.
K.,” and gave Tommy the letter with the check attached to it with a wire
clip.
“Thank you,” said Tommy, very calmly. Two hundred thousand dollars!
“One moment, please. Will you kindly sign this receipt?”
Tommy kindly did so. Kendrick took it from him silently.
“Er--good afternoon?” said Tommy, who really wished to say a great deal
more.
“Good afternoon!” said Kendrick, who did not.
“No man for the Tecumseh,” thought Tommy, as he walked out of the
office--a successful man.
The colonel had spoken about getting the check certified. Tommy did not
quite know how to go about it, but his father could tell him.
From the Willetts Building Tommy walked to his father's bank.
At the imposing entrance Tommy halted. He had never been inside. He
looked at the huge gray building with an interest that was almost
uncomfortable. People were straggling out. Nobody was going in. He saw
by the clock on Trinity's steeple that it was after banking hours.
He assumed that if he saw his father there would be no trouble in
transacting his business, notwithstanding the hour.
He started toward the main entrance and suddenly halted in his tracks.
He could not go in. Within that building worked his father, an old and
trusted employee of the bank, who had educated his son too expensively
for an old and trusted bank employee.
It was the birthplace of the secret!
Suddenly the huge gray building took on an accusing aspect, cold,
menacing. The massive granite columns became sentinels on guard. He owed
that building seventeen thousand dollars, and the granite columns knew
it!
“I'll see him at home to-night!” decided Tommy.
His heart was beating at such a furious rate that he forgot about his
success. The check for two hundred thousand dollars was merely a bit of
waste paper. The vision of his work vanished utterly into a future that
ceased to exist. The present was before him. What would Colonel Willetts
say when he learned what his father had done, year after year! And what
would the bank say? And what would everybody say to the beneficiary of
that deed, innocent but none the less the sole beneficiary?
He thought of Dayton, his only refuge, his goal. He hurried away, his
mind bent on reaching Day-ton as quickly as possible. There he would be
among friends, among people who knew that he was penniless and willing
to work and expiate another's error, among friends who knew only the
Tommy Leigh he must be to the end of his life.
He walked on quickly, impelled by an irresistible desire to keep on
walking until he arrived at Thompson's private office. Once more that
overwhelming sense of solitude came upon him that he had felt when he
alighted from the train in Dayton. Again he was alone in a strange and
unfriendly place, alone in the world.
There was nobody in New York to whom he could talk. In Dayton there was
no reason why he should not tell everything to Mr. Thompson or to Bill
Byrnes or even to Mr. Grosvenor. They would stand by him after they
knew. They were men who would be loyal to him. Therefore, he must be
loyal to them, to the men who would ask him to do his work, knowing he
was not to blame. The best men in the world these, his good friends, who
alone of all men would understand how a man might do for love what his
father had done. And here in New York where his father lived nobody
would understand! There were no friends.
Out of bitterness came the recollection of Colonel Willetts's friendly
words and generous help. But he could not be altogether grateful, for,
if the secret were known, would Colonel Willetts be the same?
He did not know. But he did know it would not make any difference to
Rivington. Certainly not, God bless him! And yet he could not tell
Rivington, whom he loved as a brother. He dared not. And he could not
tell Marion. She would not blame him. She would feel very sorry for him.
She would say, softly, “Poor Tommy!” He saw her lips move as she
said this. He saw her eyes, moist and luminous. He was sure of
her--absolutely!
He drew in a deep breath. With the oxygen came courage. His fists
clenched as the fighting mood returned. He would win out. Had he
forgotten for a moment that he must fight until he had killed this thing
that made his life a torture? He must not stop fighting a single second
until he won out. And when that happened--
He saw Marion again. He heard her. She said, “Good boy, Tommy!”
Some one else said, “Hey, there, why don't you look where yer goin', you
big slob?”
It was a newsboy into whom he had bumped. “Excuse me,” said Tommy,
contritely.
“Aw, fergit it!” retorted the boy.
“I will!” said Tommy, thinking of something else. He would forget it!
He walked into the nearest telephone pay station and called up Marion.
He was just in time. She was just about to leave the house to do some
shopping, she told him.
“I was coming up to say good-by,” he said. “Can't we have tea somewhere?
I'll get Rivington. I think he's at the club.”
“When are you going?”
“To-night at eight-thirty.”
“Must you? I thought you'd stay--”
“Must!” he said, miserably but proudly.
“I'm so sorry. Well, I'll meet you at Sherry's at five.”
“Don't forget,” he said.
“I won't keep you waiting,” she assured him.
He left the telephone-booth smiling, master of himself. His youth made
his sense of relative values imperfect. That made him harrow his own
feelings with the utmost ease, and also made him cease the self-torture
with equal facility.
He rode up-town, thinking quite comfortably of his departure from New
York and of his arrival in Dayton, and succeeded in strengthening his
own resolve to put an end to the secret somehow.
He arrived at his college dub. Luck was with him. Rivington, having been
a steady loser, was still playing billiards.
“Hello, Tommy, how did you make out?”
“Complete success!”
“Great-oh!” And Rivington made a mis-cue.
“Great-oh!” echoed Rivington's opponent. “Thank you, Tommily.”
Rivington approached Tommy and shook hands warmly. “Did he take the
whole cheese?”
“Yes. He's a brick! And, say, we are to meet Marion at five at
Sherry's.”
“What for?”
“I'm going back to Dayton to-night.”
“Are you crazy?” exclaimed Rivington, stepping back in alarm.
“I work for a living, lad,” said Tommy, paternally.
“Well, you'd better give it up before it is too late. Why, Tommy, I had
planned a series of professional visits--Ha, that ends the succession of
scratches, James.” And he left Tommy for the billiard-table.
Tommy looked at him, at Jim Rogers, at the other fellow-alumni about
the other tables. A pleasant enough life, mild, wholesome amusements
for decent chaps, who enjoyed one another's company--and didn't work. No
life for him!
He recalled the oily odors of the shop. They made him almost homesick!
No life for him, this!
“Remember,” he called to Rivington, “I'll come back for you in
thirty-two minutes.”
“It would be a kindness to take him out now, Tommily,” remarked Jim
Rogers.
Nice children, these, thought old Mr. Thomas P. Leigh as he left the
billiard-room.
Rivington's luck had turned when Tommy called for him; but he only
grumbled a little as they left the dub. He was very fond of his sister;
and then there was his loyalty toward an unfortunate friend whose
fortunes he had shared at college.
They found a table in a corner--selected by Tommy as far from the
madding crowd as he could get it--and while they waited few Marion, who
had promised not to keep them waiting, Tommy told Rivington all about
his deal with Colonel Willetts. Rivington did not appear interested
enough in the investment to suit Tommy, so young Mr. Leigh explained
sternly what Thompson meant to do, and told him what manner of man
Thompson was and all about the experiments, and why all the stockholders
must be interested in the work and the experiments, until Rivington
became quite excited.
“Say, that's some man, Tommy!”
Tommy smiled tolerantly and nodded.
“Don't be so confoundedly superior,” cried Rivington. “You needn't think
you can make me believe that your experimental boss has put a new brain
in your coco.”
“No, the old brain was all right.”
“What?” almost shrieked Rivington.
“I'll tell you what he has done, though,” said Tommy, seriously. “He has
given me new eyes to see with.”
“When they begin to think they see things,” said Rivington, solemnly,
“it's a sign a mighty intellect is tottering.” Then Rivington, seeing
that Tommy was still serious, became serious in turn. “Tom, that's what
I've always said. If they'd only make the work interesting they'd make
you think business was your pet elective and unappreciated geniuses
would gladly put in ten horns a day. But what do they give you instead?
A last year's advertisement of a special sale of cod-liver oil, and
you trying to work off four inches of waist-line. I am going to tell my
honored father to take a tip from Thompson. There's Marion!” And he rose
to his feet that she might see him.
She came toward them, smiling. “How do you do, Tommy?” She shook hands
man fashion, grasping Tommy's hand firmly and looking straight into his
eyes.
The sight of her filled Tommy with pleasure. Her presence made itself
felt to him also in exquisitely subtle ways. It brought to him a
wonderful sense of companionship, that provided him with a receptacle
wherein to he might pour out torrentially whatever it was that his soul
craved to give forth. And he was leaving all these things to undertake
the work in Dayton which had seemed so important to him! He wondered
whether he would be satisfied to live in New York if things were
different--a life like Rivington's, for instance? And he was instantly
conscious that he was older and wiser than Rivington.
But even if he could--and he wasn't sure he could--he really couldn't.
And the reason he could not was a reason that Marion must never know.
But he had to tell her something.
“I didn't think it would come so hard to return to Dayton,” he said.
But it was the thought of what he could not tell her that made his voice
serious.
“It's too bad!” said Marion. She looked so sympathetic that Tommy's
self-pity was at once aroused.
“Yes, it is,” he said, and looked at her.
She looked away. Rivington was trying to catch the headwaiter's eye.
Tommy was silent. Marion was forced to speak.
“Are you going to write this time?” Her eyebrows were raised, calmly
questioning. The calmness brought to her a sense of both age and safety.
“How often can you stand it?” asked Tommy, anxiously. He wished to write
every day.
“How often will you feel like it?” she asked, it was plain to see, for
information only, that she might tell him exactly.
“If I wrote as often as I felt like it I'd write--” He stopped.
“That's what you say now.” Then she smiled, to forgive his silence in
advance.
“Marion, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you--er--your father.
He's made me go back a winner. It means everything to me.”
“I'm so glad, Tommy. Isn't it fine?”
“Yes. Only I wish I didn't have to go back at all.”
She forgot that she had told him the night before that he was the
luckiest boy in the world to have a chance to do such splendid work as
Mr. Thompson had mapped out for him. She asked, anxiously:
“Do you have to, Tommy?”
“Yes,” he answered, gloomily.
“I mean to-day?”
She looked at him. It thrilled him so that he instantly reacted to a
sense of duty.
“Yes,” he said, grimly; “I must. I--” He caught himself.
“You what?”
“I'll tell you some day.” He spoke almost threateningly.
“Why can't you--” she began, irrepressibly.
He shook his head so firmly and withal miserably that she looked away
and said:
“Don't forget to write.” She turned to him and smiled. She knew this boy
would remain a boy for years. He divined her suspicion. In fact, he did
so quite easily. It made him say:
“I don't think you really know me, Marion.” He forgot himself and looked
at her challengingly.
She took up his challenge. How could she help it? She retorted, “As well
as you know me!”
“I wonder if that can be so?” he mused. He looked into her eyes intently
to see if peradventure the truth was there.
“Do you think people can read each other's thoughts?” she asked, a
trifle anxiously.
“Sometimes I do--almost,” said Tommy, in a low voice.
“Tea and English muffins toasted,” said Riverington to the waiter. To
Tommy he remarked: “Since I began to associate with wage-earners I find
tea helpful. Also sinkers. The days of beer and pretzels--”
“There isn't a souse in the shop,” interrupted Tommy, with great
dignity. “It was one of the things that Thompson did, and the men
never knew it until it was done.” And since he sadly realized that his
tête-à-tête with Marion was over, he began to tell them about his job
at the shop, to which he was Door Opener. Marion listened for the second
time with the same degree and quality of interest with which she would
have listened to an African hunting story or a narrative of incredible
hardship in the Arctic. And so did Rivington. And then Tommy told them
about Bill's invention and hinted at his own hopes. Not being fully
satisfied with the hints, he proceeded elaborately to make plain to
them what the first successful kerosene carburetor would do for the
automobile industry and what it ought to mean to the owners of
the patent. And Marion's eyes thereat grew gloriously bright with
excitement.
“Won't it be fine when your friend finishes it?” she said.
“Yes, it will,” said Tommy, looking steadily into her eyes.
“No, it would make a philanthropist of Tommy,” said Rivington, shaking
his head, “and then his friends would lose him. Leave him as he is--a
poor thing, but our own.”
Youthful vaudeville, thought Tommy, but not altogether displeasing.
And later, when he said good-by to Marion, he was overwhelmed by the
infinitude of the things he had wished to tell her and had not.
“Be sure to write,” she said.
“Yes,” interjected Rivington, “we expect daily reports of profits. No
more loafing on the job. Your stockholders have rights which even you
are bound to respect, my piratical friend. But I think you are a ninny
just the same.”
“I've got to go back to-night,” said Tommy, craving sympathy.
“Yes, the plant might burn down or the horny-handed might get to cutting
up. Ah, I see! You are docked the full twenty cents a day during your
absence.”
But Tommy was busy manoeuvering so that he might say to Marion
desperately the least of the million things he wished to say. He told
her in a low voice:
“You are the most wonderful girl in the world.”
She shook her head and smiled.
“Yes!” he insisted, with a frown.
“I'm glad you think so,” she said, seriously.
“Are you?”
“Yes,” she said. Then she nodded twice.
“Good-by!” He shook hands, unaware that he was pressing hers too tightly
for comfort.
“Good-by and--good luck!” she said, earnestly.
“That means getting back to New York,” said Rivington. “Why don't you
try for the selling agency here, you idiot?”
“No,” said Tommy, frowning as he thought of the new reason, “it means my
making good in Dayton.”
And from Sherry's he went straight to the station and bought his
railroad ticket for Dayton. He would leave that same night.
From the ticket-office he went home to pack. His father was in the
library reading his newspaper. The little parlor on the first floor
was a much more comfortable room, but Mr. Leigh religiously did all his
reading in the library by the table whereon were the family Bible, the
ivory paper-cutter, and the fading photograph of his wife in its silver
frame.
The old man nodded gravely as Tommy entered. “Were you more successful
to-day, Thomas?” he asked, calmly.
“Yes, dad. Colonel Willetts took the entire block. He was very nice
about it. I--suppose I have to thank you for it.”
“You don't have to thank me; thank your friend, Mr. Thompson. It is a
good business proposition.” Mr. Leigh nodded, as if his own statement
needed his confirmation. At least that is the way it impressed Tommy.
“I'm going back to-night, father, and--”
“So soon?” interrupted Mr. Leigh, quickly. The look of alarm that came
into his eyes vanished before Tommy could see it.
“Yes, sir. By the way, I have Colonel Willetts's check. He told me I
might get it certified at the bank, but I--I didn't.” Tommy distinctly
remembered why he had not entered the bank. But all he said was, “It was
after banking hours.”
“If you wish I can have it done and mail it to you.”
“I'd like to take it back with me,” said Tommy; “but I suppose I can't.”
“It isn't necessary to have it certified. The bank will surely pay it.
You would like to take it with you and give it to Thompson yourself?”
The old man's hands, unseen by Tommy, clenched tightly.
“Of course I would,” laughed Tommy, who naturally had dramatized his own
triumphant return to Dayton.
“There is no reason why you shouldn't, Thomas,” said Mr. Leigh. Then
after a pause, “Particularly if you must return at once.”
“Yes, I must,” said Tommy. By rights he ought to stay in New York and
live with his father, whose only son he was, the father with whom he
had lived so little since his school days. Then he assured himself that
Marion had nothing to do with his sense of filial duty.
For a moment Mr. Leigh looked as if he were about to speak, but he
merely shook his head and resumed his newspaper. Tommy went to his room
to pack his suit-case. They had very little to say at dinner. When the
time came for parting, Mr. Leigh's face took on the same look of grim
determination that Tommy remembered so distressingly.
“My son,” said Mr. Leigh, in the dispirited monotone that also recalled
to Tommy the first time he had heard it, “I do not think you--you
are called upon to suffer unnecessary discomforts. Your--your weekly
remittances to me are doubtless depriving you of--”
“They are my chief pleasure, dad,” Tommy interrupted, very kindly. “I
send only what I can afford. I am very comfortable. I never felt more
fit. And I--Well, father, you might as well understand that I've simply
got to pay back the money you--you spent for my education.”
“There is no call upon you to do that. It was my duty. Your education
was to me the most important--”
“Yes, yes, I understand, dad. But don't you understand how I feel about
it?” Tommy spoke feverishly. He hated to talk about it, for it sharpened
the secret's prod unbearably. And he hated himself for his cowardice in
not talking about it in plain words.
“I have credited you with what you've sent,” said Mr. Leigh, so eagerly,
so apologetically, and withal so proudly, that Tommy's heart was
softened. “See?” And the old man took from the table drawer the little
book bound in black morocco and showed Tommy the items on the credit
side.
“Not as much as I'd like,” said Tommy, bravely trying to speak
pleasantly.
“But I don't want you to stint yourself. It isn't necessary.” Seeing
Tommy's look of protest, he went on, hurriedly: “I can bear my burden
alone. You are in no way to blame.”
“Father, all I want to do is to pay back what I owe--”
“You owe nothing!”
“I think I do. It has made me work--”
“I don't want that. You must find pleasure in the work itself, not in
paying my--er--debts, Thomas.”
“Your debts are my debts,” said Tommy, firmly. “And I do love the work.
I want to do it. If I--even if I didn't feel I owed a penny, I'd still
want to work in Dayton under Thompson, who will surely make me into a
man.”
“I think you are that already, Thomas.” Mr. Leigh's voice quavered
so that Tommy took a step toward him. “If you continue as you have
begun”--Mr. Leigh's voice was now steady, almost cold--“I shall be quite
satisfied, Thomas.”
“I'll do my best, father,” said Tommy, fully as firmly. “I'll write you
regularly and keep you informed of my progress. My work is of a peculiar
character, and I can't always be sure I'm making good. As a matter of
fact,” he added, in a burst of frankness, “I'm merely getting paid for
being one of Thompson's Experiments, as they call us at the works.”
“He is an unusual man. If his experiments should prove successful--” The
old man paused to look sternly at his only son.
“He says they always do,” smiled Tommy, reassuringly.
“I pray so, my son,” said Mr. Leigh, quietly.
“Th' aut'mobile is out there,” announced Maggie.
“Good-by, dad!” said Tommy, rising hastily.
Mr. Leigh also rose. He was frowning. His lips were pressed together
tightly. He held out his hand. It was very cold. Tommy shook it warmly.
“Good-by, my son,” said Mr. Leigh, sternly.