Tommy nodded as Mr. Thompson passed on. It was all he was able to do. In point of fact he had to ask Martin, the cashier, where Mr. Thompson lived.
He didn't finish his letter to Marion. He was too busy dressing for his first dinner in Dayton and trying to keep from singing. Whatever happened eventually, this was a respite. He didn't even attach any importance to Mrs. Clayton's look of awe as she saw Tommy in his dinner clothes, nor to Billy's ironical, “Good-by, old carburetor!” as he left the boarding-house on his way to Mr. Thompson's.
CHAPTER VIII
MR. THOMPSON went in for etchings, and Tommy had to stop, look, and listen. He was not bored, because his proud delight in Mr. Thompson's versatility kept him awake. There were so many evidences of a wide interest in the non-money-making things of life in this home that Tommy found himself free from the oppression of his burden. Mrs. Thompson was away on a visit to her people and the two men dined alone.
Over the coffee in the library the talk finally drifted to Mr. Thompson. From that to Mr. Thompson's “Experiments” at the factory was a short step. Tommy had learned that all of these “Experiments” were at work in the experimental shop and in the selling department, and that not all of them were young men. Then Mr. Thompson talked about his advertisement in the New York Herald.
“I received many answers. I should have thrown yours away if you had not given your age. It was too sophisticated and smart-Alecky. It didn't mean anything—except the truth. Not knowing you, I was not sure it was true. I can't stand puzzles, so I sent for you.”
“I'm glad you did. It saved my life,” blurted Tommy.
“Don't exaggerate, Leigh,” admonished Thompson, calmly.