This he understood. The moment he had time to think over these things, he said to himself:
“I didn’t do this—it’s no ability or virtue of mine; and you can’t charge it to luck. What did it?”
As he asked himself this question, he looked down the shop and saw his father—the man who was doing things, who was working out hard problems with his head and hands. Then he knew. The reward hadn’t come to the father. Even now he was working as he had for years. The reward for all those years had come to the son.
“It’s father,” said the lad thoughtfully to himself. “It all comes from what he’s done.” Then he thought of Mr. Atkinson’s words to his parent: “You’re the best mechanical man I ever knew, but you were not cut out for high finance.”
A little lump rose in the boy’s throat. He struck a bench with his fist. “He’s right,” muttered Roy stoutly. “Mr. Atkinson told the truth. But father has brought up three boys who, maybe, will do things that money can’t. And it’s the man over there in overalls who’ll get the credit—if I have my way.”
Almost at the same time his father saw him and motioned him forward.
“Get off your coat,” he ordered. “This is the car that’s going. I want you to know every piece of it.”
Roy hesitated a moment.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he began. “I’ll have to put this somewhere—” He opened his coat and gave his father a secret look at the five-hundred-dollar package of bills.
Instead of astonishment, the busy mechanic only grunted.