Young Randolph had now become a frequent visitor at Mr. Goldwin’s home, where, notwithstanding the many attractions of a great city, he spent the happiest hours of his life. Bob Hunter, moreover, was not an entire stranger at this handsome residence. His visits, though, were few in comparison to those of his partner, and this was due to two causes—first, a decided reluctance to leave his books, for he had become a most industrious student, and second, the lack of so delightful an attraction as that which turned the steps of the young Vermonter so often towards the Goldwin home.
It was now midwinter. Herbert and Bob had been in business together nearly nine months, in which time they had by hard work and splendid ability lifted themselves from poverty and drudgery to a position of prosperity. In an up town savings bank a snug sum of money was deposited to their credit, and this was in excess of the amount used in their business, which had become so large that a good working capital was necessary.
One day they received a letter from Mr. Goldwin inviting them to dine with him and his family on the following evening. The letter stated, moreover, that he wished to talk with them about a matter in which he thought they would feel an interest.
“What can he wish to talk over with us?” said Bob.
“I have been speculating on that same point,” replied Herbert.
“And you came to no conclusion?”
“No, I really cannot imagine his purpose.”
“It may be about business,” suggested the junior partner.
“You may be right, Bob, but it hardly seems probable that he would want to talk with us about business.”
“But you say he has often talked with you about it when you have been at his house.”