PUMPKIN PIE
There was pumpkin pie on the _carte de jour_ that Thursday. Offhand one
might have said that nothing was less likely to influence the lives
of half a dozen residents of New York City. It is very probable that
the proprietors of the hotel and the chef who put it there would have
denied vigorously having any ulterior design and would, before a court
of law, have disclaimed all responsibility. Doubtless they would have
been sustained by the judge.
However, there was pumpkin pie on the _carte de jour_ that Thursday. As
Burnett picked up the card with indifferent interest, his eye fell upon
it. He glanced at his son sitting opposite him.
“Your mother used to make the best pumpkin pie in the State of Maine,”
he observed.
“So?” answered Dicky.
The waiter was standing at Burnett’s shoulder with pad and pencil ready.
“Give me some of that clear soup,” Burnett ordered.
“And whole wheat bread, sir?”
“Yes,” nodded Burnett.
He hesitated after that.
“The haddock is very good, sir, and not fattening, as you might say.”
“I’ll try some.”
“Very well, sir.”
With that the waiter was for hurrying off.
Burnett stopped him. “I’d like to try a piece of that pumpkin pie,
Dicky,” he faltered. “Just to see how it compares with your mother’s.”
“Go ahead,” consented Dicky.
“A piece of pumpkin pie, John,” Burnett ordered grandly.
He actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and was
immediately in better humor with himself than for a week. That is what
counted. That is where the pumpkin pie played its part.
“Forsythe handed me the January statement this morning,” he said to
Dicky. “Best month in the history of the company.”
“Fine!”
“Ought to beat it this month.”
“Hope you do.”
Decidedly this seemed to be the moment for which Dicky had been waiting.
“By the way, Dad,” he began, “I have something I want to talk over with
you.”
“The girl?”
“Not exactly. It’s business.”
“Eh?”
“I have a chance to get into something good.”
“Look here, my boy, you aren’t fooling with the Street?”
Dicky smiled.
“No, Dad. I’ll leave that game to you. This is something different.”
“What is it?”
“The devil of it is I can’t tell you. A friend of mine—”
Burnett raised his brows.
“Not the usual kind of friend,” Dicky hastened to explain. “This is a
friend I’d trust my life with. She—er—he wants me to go in as a silent
partner.”
“In what?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. But it promises big. It promises to
be the biggest thing in my life.”
“Sounds a bit queer,” exclaimed Burnett.
“Yes,” admitted Dicky, “it does. But if I give you my word that it
isn’t—”
“I don’t want your word. How much do you need?”
“Five thousand.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Burnett drew a check-book from his pocket and wrote the check. It was
done so unhesitatingly, so simply, that Dicky felt almost ashamed to
accept it.
“That’s white of you, Dad,” he exclaimed.
Burnett raised a portion of the pie to his mouth and tasted it
critically.
“It isn’t as good as your mother’s,” he decided. “But it’s almighty
good.”