“I’d like one about a hundred feet long, if I could find it.”
“You don’t want much,” was his father’s half-humorous reply, as he folded the newspaper so that he could read the next column with more ease. After a few moments, pursuing the subject, he continued,
“Is there any particular breed of dragon that you’re after?”
“What I really want,” the boy answered, “is one of those spiny ones—the sort Uncle George discovered out West.”
The keen old financier looked thoughtful, then deliberately took off his reading-glasses, laid down the paper and turned to the boy.
“You’re talking about fossil monsters, then,” he said.
“Yes, Father, that’s it exactly. And I do hope you’ll let me do it!”
The boy’s earnestness was evident, and he knew he could count on his father, for they had always been close friends.
“Let you do what?” the merchant queried in response. “I suppose all this preamble about a dragon means that you have some crazy notion in your head. Come along, son, tell me all about it.”
This was the chance for which Perry Hunt had long been waiting, and he snatched eagerly at it.