Then Grandfather Woodbridge grew impressive. He advanced and shook hands with his grandson as if he were greeting a distinguished member of the board of directors. Then he turned to his son and shook hands with him also, solemnly. His eyes shone through his gold-rimmed spectacles, but his voice was grave with feeling.
"I congratulate you, Cornelius," he said, "on possessing two sons whose word of honour is of the sort to satisfy the Hezekiah Woodbridge standard. The smallest deviation from the outlined schedule would have resulted disastrously. Ten minutes' tardiness at the different points would have failed to obtain the requisite documents. Your sons did not fail. They can be depended upon. The world is in search of men built on those lines. I congratulate you, sir."
Cyrus was glad presently to escape to his stateroom with Cornelius. "Say, what did you have to do?" he asked eagerly. "Did you trot your legs off all over town?"
"Not much, I didn't!" said Cornelius, grimly, from the depths of a big towel. "I spent the whole day in a little hole of a room at the top of an empty building, with just ten trips down the stairs to the ground floor to get envelopes at certain minutes. Not a crumb to eat nor a thing to do. Couldn't even snatch a nap for fear I'd oversleep one of my dates at the bottom. Had five engagements, too—one with Helena Fowler at the links. All I could do was to cut 'em and stick it out. Casabianca was nothing to me."
"I believe that was worse than mine," commented Cyrus reflectively.
"I should say it was. If you don't think so, try it."
"Dinner, boys," said their father's voice at the door, and they lost no time in responding. When they had taken their seats and the waiter came for Cornelius's order, that youth simply pushed the card of the elaborate menu to one side, and said emphatically, quite without his customary drawl: "Bring me everything, and twice of it."
"Me, too!" said Cyrus, with enthusiasm.
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