Young John dared. He rose slowly, and stood looking down at his father, feet spread, hands in pockets of his smart coat.
"That's the hardest ride I've ever taken," he said. "It wasn't very pleasant, I wouldn't have stood it this way if I thought you understood. You don't."
Luke grunted. "If I had been a young man in your generation, I'd have started as you did, because that was the way all men began. It was backs and brains that made money then. It isn't that way now."
"What makes money, then?"
"Money." Luke eyed his son who waited a moment before going on: "Money makes money. The man with money makes money. The man who starts without it now is under as much of a handicap as you would have been if your back had been weak. Your father gave you your back to start with. The fathers of sons today give them money to make a beginning. I don't consider, then, when I ask you to set me up, that I am asking any more than you expected in your time. A different sort of favor, but it's no greater."
The old man snuggled down into his chair.
"Well?"
"That's—that's all, sir."
One withered hand tapped the chair arm testily.
"If I give you money, how do I know you have got sense enough to use it to make more? What've you ever done?"
John shifted one foot slowly.
"Well I was a captain in—"
"Don't make me laugh; I've got a stitch in my side. Captain in the Quartermaster Corps, eh? An' what else?"
