"We'll be paying dividends after the first twelve months, Ted. Then you'll be all right. Your interest in the company will be worth a lot of money."
"It's more or less of a gamble, I suppose?"
"All business is," said my father. "But I was flattering myself I had a son who had the grit to gamble for big stakes, and the brains to play the game."
"Damn," I said, getting up and walking about the room. My father began writing with an abominably scratchy nib.
"I ought to consult Helen," I turned and shot at him. He looked up from his letter and shrugged. The nib scratched on. "I told her I had excellent prospects when I married her—that Knowlton and I had made good with the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company—" I paused in my argument, for my father appeared to be ignoring my remarks. He began another letter.
"Take it or leave it, Ted," he said after another silence. "All I ask is that you let me know definitely by lunch time. If you don't go, I must send another chemist to Berlin. I've made you the best offer in my power. A father can't do more than that."
"I wish you could see my point of view."
"I see it perfectly. Facts, however, overrule a point of view. If I had the means, I'd set you free this minute. As I haven't, there is nothing to argue about."
"Facts are damned unfair."
"They are," agreed my father.