The youth did not heed the chubby, outstretched hand. “My name,” he said, very formally and introductorily, “is Carey. My father used to know you when he was editor of the Blankburg Herald.”
“Well,” said the colonel, encouragingly, “shake hands anyhow.”
Carey shook hands; his diffidence vanished. He was a pleasant-faced, pleasant-voiced young fellow, Treadwell thought. He was a good-hearted, jocular old fellow, unlike what he had imagined the leader of the stock market would be, Carey thought.
“Yes,” went on the colonel, “I remember your father very well. I never forget my up-the-State friends, and I am always glad to see their sons. When I ran for Congress, Bill Carey wrote red-hot editorials in my favor, and I was beaten by a large and enthusiastic majority. I haven’t seen your father in twenty-odd years—not since he went wrong and took to politics.”
“Well, Colonel Treadwell,” laughed Carey, “I guess Dad did his best for you. And if you didn’t go to Congress you’re better off, from all I have read in the papers about you.”
You would have thought they had known each other for years.
“That’s what I say; I have to,” chuckling.
“Colonel,” said the young man, boldly, “I’ve come to ask your advice.”
“Most people don’t ask it twice. Be careful now.”
“Do you mean that they get so rich following it that they don’t have to come again?”