“No, it would make a philanthropist of Tommy,” said Rivington, shaking his head, “and then his friends would lose him. Leave him as he is—a poor thing, but our own.”
Youthful vaudeville, thought Tommy, but not altogether displeasing. And later, when he said good-by to Marion, he was overwhelmed by the infinitude of the things he had wished to tell her and had not.
“Be sure to write,” she said.
“Yes,” interjected Rivington, “we expect daily reports of profits. No more loafing on the job. Your stockholders have rights which even you are bound to respect, my piratical friend. But I think you are a ninny just the same.”
“I've got to go back to-night,” said Tommy, craving sympathy.
“Yes, the plant might burn down or the horny-handed might get to cutting up. Ah, I see! You are docked the full twenty cents a day during your absence.”
But Tommy was busy manoeuvering so that he might say to Marion desperately the least of the million things he wished to say. He told her in a low voice:
“You are the most wonderful girl in the world.”
She shook her head and smiled.
“Yes!” he insisted, with a frown.