Tom tried to collect his shocked mind.
“How long will it take you to come to a conclusion?” he asked.
“I don’t know. A considerable time. The accounts are very complicated.”
“How much money would it take to clear everything?”
“It’s hard to say, at this point. Perhaps thirty thousand. I think that twenty thousand might pull it through, in hard cash, at this minute. Are you thinking of furnishing it?” he added, with a return to his ironical manner.
Tom had really come nearer to being able to furnish it than the lawyer imagined; and if Mr. Armstrong had shown himself a little more sympathetic the boy might have told his story and sought advice. But, as it was, he turned away in silence, full of grief and distress.
“I suppose you’ll be going up to join your family in Muskoka,” the lawyer said. “Don’t let your father talk about business when you see him. Get him out in the open air, canoeing, fishing, if you can. Will you dine with me to-night?”
Tom would rather have gone hungry than spend the evening with what seemed to him Armstrong’s sneering and cynical personality. He muttered an excuse, took the key, and went home again. He dined by himself at a lunch-counter, spent the night in the empty house, and next morning took the early train for Muskoka Beaches. He felt that he could make no plans for the summer now until he knew how his father was, and whether his help could be of any avail.
The season was opening well at the summer resort, and the lake in front of the Royal Victoria Hotel was alive with canoes, motor-boats, and skiffs. The lawns were gay with tennis; automobiles roared and thudded, and the wide verandas of the big hotel were crowded with rocking-chairs. It struck Tom that this was anything but a quiet retreat for a man with nervous breakdown. He mounted the steps to the first veranda, looked about uncertainly, and was lucky enough to espy his youngest sister in a far corner, reclining in a camp-chair with a novel.
“Oh, Edith!” he exclaimed, hastening toward her. “How’s father? Where is he?”