The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache--which protruded from each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish--and gazed impudently in his father's face. Then he turned about, and bestowed another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.
"That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him. Mr. Wilkeson--my son."
Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who accepted it reluctantly.
"I have seen you before, I believe," said he. "Across the way, eh?"
"I dare say," was the reply. "I sometimes sit at the window, reading."
Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.
"Since you have no secrets from this gentleman," said the son, "allow me to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars this morning?"
The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of Marcus Wilkeson's face, and said:
"No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance. Where is your last monthly allowance?"
"Gone, of course," answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone. "Do you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?"