At this moment Horatio Barnes himself strided in, dressed in a bath-robe and slippers that wouldn’t stay on.
“Morning, Dick,” he shouted, “I’m going to keep a herd of Jerseys. In the old days Mitchell used to beat us all hollow on stock, but I’ll have some this time that will make his eyes stick out. I hope there are a few Mitchells left to watch me carry off the blue ribbons. Suppose they still hold the County Fair?”
“Haven’t a doubt of it,” answered Barnes, enthusiastically, “but I’m afraid we won’t be able to get in for it this Fall.”
“Won’t?” snorted the father. “How much time do you want? I’ll have a herd within a week or know the reason why.”
“Steady, steady,” his son cautioned. “Remember there are tenants on the old farm at present.”
“I’ll move ’em out bag and baggage within a month. I’ll do it if it costs twenty thousand dollars.”
“Whew,” whistled Barnes, “but when you do make up your mind—”
“I don’t wait,” answered the senior. “There’s another thing I want settled right off. I’m going to start a close corporation for the promotion of Art. I’ll appoint myself president of the company and make you vice-president, treasurer, secretary, and general manager on a salary of five thousand a year.”
“You what?”
“Our offices will be on the farm. I’ll touch up the fences, while you attend to the sunsets.”