“I call her a Christian martyr every time I think of her brother,” said Tommy.
“Yes?” said Rivington, very politely. “Well, my father will avenge me. I'll let him know that we'll be down at his office with an ambulance at three-ten. The stock-market closes at three. He ought to be fit to talk to ten minutes later. And now you come with me. I want to show you my new Parker six.”
“Riv, why don't you drive a car?” inquired Tommy, solicitously.
“Haw! Haw! A Tecumseh, hey? Oh, my appendix! Don't make me laugh when I'm driving, Tommily.”
“Got a license, son?”
“Better than that. The cops all know me. Come on, I'll learn you something.”
They rode out into Westchester County, had luncheon at their college dub, and shortly after three were at Colonel Willetts's office.
“How do you do, Tommy?” said Colonel Willetts, so pleasantly and unbusinesslike that Tommy felt sorry. “How's the job?” He was a tall, handsome man with a ruddy complexion that went very well with his snow-white military mustache. A casual glance made one think of a martinet; but on closer study one might gather that the colonel was not a disciplinarian at home, but merely liked the pose. There is a vast difference between a capitalist and a captain of industry.
“I'm still on it, Colonel,” replied Tommy, thinking of an opening.
“H'm! Can't you find something for a needy friend to do in Dayton? Rivington”—he used the elaborate sarcasm of the fond father who can't control his children because his own program changes daily—“is very anxious to go into business.”