“‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend,’” David quoted, with a return of the good-natured smile. “What have I done to make you think small of me? Or is it something that I haven’t done?”
“Neither,” was the thoughtful reply. “It’s just—oh, well; I guess it is because we were boys together, and I couldn’t seem to realize that you have grown up.”
“You and Dad are the limit. Do you realize it now?”
“Y-yes; to some extent. I’ve been watching you through this business whirl. You’ve done well; splendidly well. But it was the fighting of the untrained soldier.”
“Of course it was. What I didn’t know of the actual details of the business would have filled a library.”
“That isn’t what I meant; I guess I can’t express myself clearly enough to make you understand just what it is that I do mean. It sizes itself up something like this: you’re so wholesome and straightforward and decent, David——”
“Break it off,” laughed David; “you make me blush!”
“That’s it,” said the keen-eyed young fellow across the table; “you do blush. Which is the proof of the pudding. But I mustn’t devil you when you’re tired; tired and more or less discouraged.”
“Discouraged? Not a bit of it. Why should I be discouraged?”
“Most fellows would be, in your shoes. You’ve had every reason to believe that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth—or at least, a triple-plated one.”