"That's the way I like to hear you talk," cried Mrs. Strong.
Half an hour later, Charlie Webster was on his way to the city. He had an additional commission to perform. Mrs. Strong was sending a telegram to her son David.
II — The next day a well-dressed, breezy-looking young man walked into Charlie's office and exclaimed:
"Hello, Uncle Charlie!"
"Good Lord!" gasped Charlie Webster. "It can't be—why, by gosh, if it ain't Harry! Holy smoke!" He jumped up and grasped the stranger's hand. Pumping it vigorously, he cried: "I'd know that Conkling nose if I saw it in Ethiopia. God bless my soul, you're—you're a MAN! It beats all how you kids grow up. How's your mother? And what in thunder are you doing here?"
"I guess I've changed a lot, Uncle Charlie," said the young man, "but you ain't? You look just the same as you did fifteen years ago."
"How old are you? My gosh, I can't believe my eyes."
"I was twenty-four last birthday. You—"
"If ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, Harry. You're the living image of George Conkling,—and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me."
"Well, you and Mother look a lot alike, Uncle Charlie. She's thinner than you are but—"