“I am getting older,” continued Mr. Tinker, “As you know I have no son. I must look for a younger man to take some of the work from my shoulders. Of late I have felt the constant strain more than I used to. But, there, it’s no use talking, I suppose. I think you’re a young idiot all the same to start as they say you’re going to. Take an old man’s word for it, Tom Pinder, business and philanthropy don’t mix. Make your money in trade and give what you don’t want yourself in charity, if you like; but business must be run on business lines. It’s some of Ben Garside’s hatching, I expect; but then Ben was always crackbrained.”
“I am sure I don’ know how to thank you, sir,” began Tom.
“Oh! I don’t want your thanks. I was looking out for myself as much as you. Nothing for nothing—that’s business you’ll find. The question is, are you content to stop on at Wilberlee or ‘gang your ain gate,’ as the Scotch say. Yea or nay, or would you like to think it over?”
Now Tom knew if he consulted Ben, just the advice that Ben would give—stop on at Wilberlee. He knew also that though Ben would say this promptly, and to all seeming cheerfully, it would be the shattering of the brightest dream his friend had ever dreamed. Besides, to fill Sam Buckley’s place would bring him very little nearer—he knew what. No! he could wait and work, and Tom believed in the future foretold for him who knows how to wait.
Mr. Tinker took up the indenture, and seemed to read it.
“H’m,” he said, more to himself than Tom, “I’ve signed so many of these things that I forget what they bind a man to. But it’s a mere form.”
“I’ll burn this now, anyway,” he said aloud. “Put it into the stove, Pinder.”
Tom did as he was bid, and as the stiff paper caught the flames, and the smell from the wax seals invaded the stuffy office he felt as though chains fell from his limbs and incense burned on the altar of freedom.
“Well?” said Mr. Tinker at length.
“I think I must go, sir. But I go thanking you from my heart,” was Tom’s reply.