The father struck a match and held it to light his son's cigarette; another habit of his which he had found flattering to men who were brought into the library for conference. Jack took a puff slowly and, after a time, another puff, and then dropped the cigarette on the ash receiver as much as to say that he had smoked enough. Something told John Wingfield, Sr. that this was to be a long interview and in no way hurried, as he saw the smile dying on the son's lips and misery coming into the son's eyes.
"These last two days have been pretty poignant for me," Jack began, in a simple, outright fashion; "and only half an hour ago I got this. It was hard to resist taking the first train West." He drew a telegram from his pocket and handed it to his father.
"We want you and though we don't suppose you can come, we simply had to let you know.
"JAMES R. GALWAY."
"It is Greek to me," said the father. "From your Little Rivers friends, I judge."
"Yes. I suppose that we may as well begin with it, as it drove everything else out of my mind for the moment."
John Wingfield, Sr. swung around in his chair, with his face in the shadow. His attitude was that of a companionable listener who is prepared for any kind of news.
"As you will, Jack," he said. "Everything that pertains to you is my interest. Go ahead in your own way."
"It concerns John Prather. I don't know that I have ever told you about him in my talks of Little Rivers."
"John Prather?" The father reflectively sounded the name, the while he studied the spiral of smoke rising from his cigar. "No, I don't think you have mentioned him."