"No." Then curiosity gets the better of the young man. "Was there an awful row, Floyd?"
"Mr. Wilmarth, of course, saw the utter impossibility of any such agreement. Eugene," slowly, "is there anything you would like better than the business?"
"No business at all," answers Eugene, with audacious frankness. "I really haven't any head for it."
"But you understand—something, surely? You can—keep books, for instance? What did you do in father's time?"
"Made myself generally useful. Wrote letters and carried messages and went to the city," is the laconic reply.
Floyd is so weary and discouraged that something in his face touches Eugene.
"I wish you wanted to take my mare, Beauty, for part of this," he says, hesitatingly. "She cost me a thousand dollars, but I won back three hundred on the first race. She's gentle, too, and a saddle horse, that is, for a man. You would like her, I know."
Floyd considers a moment. "Yes," he makes answer, and hands Eugene the largest note, which balances it. "Make me out a bill of sale," he adds.
"You're a good fellow, Floyd, and I'm obliged."
For a moment Floyd Grandon feels like giving his younger brother some good advice, then he realizes the utter hopelessness of it. Nothing will sink into Eugene's mind, it is all surface. It may be that Wilmarth's influence is not a good thing for a young man. How has his father been so blinded?