The father scowled.
“Haven’t you had enough of that yet?”
Before the mother, the two had avoided this subject.
“No,” Barnes answered, “I’m just awaking to the possibilities in Art.”
The father chewed his cigar a moment.
“Boy,” he said finally, “this business here is getting too big for me alone. I can’t hold on much longer.”
“Then chuck it,” advised Barnes.
For another minute the father silently chewed his cigar. He kept control of himself because to do so meant just one chance of keeping control of this business.
“The Acme,” he resumed with an effort, “needs Youth. It needs someone who can put in twenty hours a day and not come to the office the next morning with a twitching face.”
“What it needs, then,” suggested Barnes, “is a man of cast-iron—with a scroll on his forehead.”