At last Cyrus finished his course at the "Teck." His return to Longfields was on a smiling afternoon in May and he found his father at home, sitting on the porch with Luther Dean. Cyrus and his boyhood friend had seen little of each other during the last six years. Luther had grown into a rather handsome young man. Otherwise Fortune had not favored him. With many other American boys, his ambition was to become a millionaire, and to be quick about it. And with many other boys in this upsetting country, he looked down, in fancy, from the glittering peaks of sudden wealth, upon the patient plodders in the valley below. Not for him the goody mottoes of the Sunday School. Not for him a wasted youth in "starting at the bottom, working your way up" with "slow but sure," and all the other maxims for smothering talent. For him the Napoleonic grasp of opportunity, the cutting of the Gordian knot. He believed in quick achievement. He believed
"There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."
And he believed in short cuts. His models for success were the millionaires "who had struck it rich." And he was firm in the faith that his revolt from "Patient Industry," "Honest Toil" and similar delusions was a sign of genius. In other words, he was the sort of youth no man desires in his employ. For brief periods he had held positions in different establishments in Worcester. Now, again, he was out of a job.
But Luther's manners were good, and his raiment above reproach. At present, as the three men sat on the porch, his spruce attire was in striking contrast with the almost shabby garments of Dr. Alton and his son. But Dr. Alton happened to be one of those men who have no need of clothing unless for warmth or propriety. In his head and face and figure were lines of strength and beauty that gave distinction. In his bearing and in all his movements there was dignity and a natural grace. Were he dressed as a beggar at a coronation he would have held his own.
As for Cyrus, the last ten years seemed to have made little difference, merely transforming him from boy to man; this change, as wise men have long suspected, being mostly outward. He grew to the usual height, had the usual number of teeth, recited from the usual books, played the usual games, committed the usual follies, absorbed the usual experience from the various victories and defeats of our usual life, still retaining at twenty-one the drowsy eyes and curving lips of his early childhood. Deep within him, however, were aspirations and a strength of purpose that contradicted the languid eyes and boyish mouth.
After the greetings, and when various questions had been asked and answered, Dr. Alton lighted his old briarwood pipe, took a whiff or two and said to his son:
"And the great idea, Cyrus, any further developments?"
"I should say there were! I've got it, father!"
Dr. Alton raised his eyebrows. "Really? You don't mean——"
"Yes I do. I mean just that. I have found it. It's the wonder of wonders. And it works—even better than I hoped."