“I usually fail in language; my marks are apt to be below par. But I must be going now, Jock. You say the train leaves the Grand Central at nine to-night?”
“Yes. You’d better get your ticket and check your trunk early. There’s likely to be a crowd at this time of the year.”
“I’ll be there. Got your ticket, Jock?”
“Me? Yes. I’ve got a pass for Bob and myself, or rather my father got one for us.”
“That’s the way in this world,” said his friend, with mock solemnity. “Here you are the son of a railroad magnate and just rolling in lucre, and you don’t have to buy a ticket like common mortals. No, you have a pass and all the conductors and porters stand off and look at you as if you were the King of Crœsus or some other thing, and we poor little sons of lawyers have to march up to the ticket-office and plank down good, hard-earned straight cash for our little pieces of pasteboards.”
“You are to be pitied,” replied Jock. “I heard my father say the other day the reason the railroads couldn’t make any money was because the lawyers got in first, and the roads had to take what little they left.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, for a fact.”
“This moment I return to my ancestral domicile and demand of my stern parent the portion which falleth to me. He has kept his possession of such vast wealth concealed from his family. I go to make him disgorge.”