"Oh!" They walked on together, father and son by the blood tie, but as far apart as the poles in their understanding of each other.
This meeting, too, was far from the pattern of Bert's dreams. As he had seen it in imagination, his was to be the part of one who had conquered and had proven his case, and his father's that of one who was forced to give honest credit and admiration. He sighed.
"Tired?" Mr. Quinby asked without warmth.
"Yes, sir."
"A night's sleep will fix you up. How was business?"
"Good." The boy would have bitten off his tongue before he would have confessed otherwise.
His father glanced at him sharply, but the darkness hid whatever of the bitter truth his face would have shown. They came to the house, and were almost at the door, before Mr. Quinby spoke again.
"Who's holding the money?"
"Why, it's in the bank."
"I know that; the bank teller told me—I mean who's holding the book?"
"I am. We can't draw money unless we both sign."
"That was Sam's idea."
"Yes, sir."
"Careful Sam," said the man, and passed inside. As Bert undressed he thought that he had
