led by his father to believe that Uncle Peter was somewhat of an ogre, a ferocious old man to be handled very cagily.
Uncle Peter drew a humidor of black cigars from his desk drawer. He offered one to Harold, who declined it. The steel magnate nodded approvingly, bit the end from one of the weeds and lighted the other extremity. He blew a cloud of expensively smelling smoke into the air. He sighed.
Then he said in a crisp, clipped voice: "You've grown to be quite a boy, Harold, since I saw you last. How's your mother—and father?"
Harold said nervously that he had left them very well indeed.
"'S good," agreed Uncle Peter. He took another long puff of his cigar and shot Harold a glance from under shrewd, bushy gray eyebrows. "How about you, eh?" asked Peter Thatcher. "Ready to go to work here, are you? Think you'll like the steel business, do you?"
For the life of him Harold could not force himself to be anything but truthful even at that moment. He knew that if he followed his father's advice, he would now lie diplomatically. But he couldn't. He was, instead, quite silent and embarrassed.
Peter Thatcher sensed the situation at once.
