not overly-fond of his brother-in-law, but he always treated him well.
"I suppose I may as well go in the library, say how d'ye do to my respected relative, and get a bad job over with," remarked Dick, in no pleasant frame of mind at the information Gibbs furnished. "Uncle Ezra will be sure to scold me for 'wasting my time,' as he calls it, at the military school, and he's positive to make a fuss about Grit. He always does. Grit, old man, I guess you'd better stay out in the hall, until we get this business over with. You remember Uncle Ezra, don't you?"
Grit whined, and growled. Evidently he did remember. It was no easy matter to make him stay away from Dick, and out in the hall, but he knew when to mind, and, with a sort of reproachful look on his ugly but honest face, the bulldog stretched out on a rug, as much as to say:
"Don't be any longer than you can help, Dick."
Dick could hear the voices of his father and uncle in the big, handsome library, where our hero had spent many pleasant hours with his favorite books. Mr. Larabee was speaking.
"I tell you what it is, Mortimer," he remarked to his brother-in-law. "It's all a sinful waste of money, and the sooner you find it out the better. Why it's the most crazy idea of any that my sister ever got into her head! Don't let Dick do it!"
"They're talking about me," thought the young millionaire, and he hardly knew whether to go in,
