Whereupon Baxter stalked out of the room like a rumpled Newfoundland dog, leaving Bob to administer filial comfort and smelling salts, the result being that Eleanor was presently able to give her a son a tearful version of Hiram's iconoclastic purposes. Bob listened with an amused and incredulous smile.
"Don't you know, Mother," he reasoned, "that Dad's bark is always worse than his bite? He won't close Ipping House! not a bit of it. I'll talk to him and—what you need is sleep, especially if you're going to Brighton to-morrow."
"I suppose you're right," sighed Eleanor. "You're a dear boy, Bob. Send Gibson here. Tell her to bring a hot water bag and my sulphonal tablets. And do speak to your father. Tell him I can't bear it if he closes Ipping House."
"I'll tell him. Good-night, little Mother. There! It's going to be all right." He kissed her lovingly and stole out of the room.
A few moments later young Baxter joined his father in the library, where the old man was frowning over important papers that he had brought up from town with him that evening. Things were going badly, the news from America was most unsatisfactory, and the father and son, weary and troubled, sat discussing it until long after midnight.
"There's some deviltry behind all this," declared the grizzled old fellow, pounding his fist on the table. "There's crooked work in this copper campaign. Why, that Henderson outfit seems to know what we're doing every day, just as if they had eyes in this room. I tell you there's a leak, Bob, but——" he glowered about the spacious walls under his heavy, black brows.
"Are you sure of this new secretary?" whispered the son.
Hiram's eyes softened, as they rested on the winding stair. "Am I sure of her? Sure of her?" Then with a chuckle: "Say, what do you think of my new secretary?"
Bob answered quite seriously: "She seems to be a nice girl, but she's too pretty."
"Think so?"