“What are you worrying your mother about money for? You know I won’t have it. And I won’t have you getting into debt either.”
“Well, dad, will you buy a picture from me?”
“Do me a good sketch of your mother, and I’ll give you fifty dollars for it.”
“Cash in advance?”
“Yes—on your promise. But understand, no debts.”
The eldest son, fitly enough, was in the business. Not, however, too much in the business. He put in time at the office regularly. He was going to be a partner, and the business would ultimately descend to him. But the business wrinkled not his brow. Mr. Alpha was quite ready to assume every responsibility and care. He had brains and energy enough, and something considerable over. Enough over, indeed, to run the house and grounds. Mrs. Alpha could always sleep soundly at night secure in the thought that her husband would smooth away every difficulty for her. He could do all things so much more efficiently than she could, were it tackling a cook or a tradesman, or deciding about the pattern of flowers in a garden-bed.
At the finish of the luncheon the painter, who had been meditative, suddenly raised his glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, with solemnity, “I beg to move that father be and hereby is a brick.”
“Carried nem. con.,” said the eldest son.
“Loud cheers!” said the more pert of the twins.