HIS FIRST HOLIDAY
Two days passed before Mr. Van Pycke, senior, in diligent and somewhat wrathful quest of his son, came to know that the young man had accepted a position as secretary to Mr. Krosson.
"I can't believe it," said Mr. Van Pycke, a sudden pallor almost retrieving the lost complexion at the end of his nose. He then went about the search in earnest, ultimately discovering his son in his room at the club, busily engaged in superintending the packing of cherished Penates.
"Is what I hear true, Bosworth?" demanded the old gentleman, without preliminaries.
"Sit down, dad. Try that trunk. The chairs seem to be occupied by odds and ends." Bosworth was in his shirt sleeves. His hands were dirty, and there was a long dark streak across his brow. "I'm moving."
"Moving? What the devil's the meaning of all this?" sputtered his father, kicking a package of rugs out of the way.
"I can't afford to live here on twenty-five hundred a year," said his son, genially. The perspiring porters retired to the hall.
"But you have twelve thou—"
"And I have decided to save that twelve thousand. My salary will have to do for a few years, dad."
"Your salary? Then it is true?" It was almost a wail.