“Ah, good morning, Paul,” Hunt had said, as the boy looked up. “Have you time for a little chat.”
“I guess so, Mr. Hunt,” was the rejoinder. “Let us go in the house.”
“I’d rather have it here. It is too early in the day to make a call, and your mother is probably busy.”
Paul quite saw through this, and acted more decisively than he would have believed it possible for him to do. Coming forward, he laid his hand on the door, stepped through the opening, and an instant later he had closed the portal on the outside and slipped a big padlock into its hasp. If Hunt was annoyed, he did not show it.
“I don’t blame you for not wishing me to see the machine,” he purred. “It is quite understandable; quite natural, after what occurred the other day. I deeply regret I lost my temper. It was the interest I felt in your welfare, though, that angered me when you refused my proposal.”
“Hum,” said Paul bluntly. “I thought you were mad with Rob Blake for butting in.”
“I may have seemed so; I may have seemed so,” said Mr. Hunt, with such regret in his tones that the soft-hearted Paul began to feel sorry for him. “I have a terrible temper, and when I saw that my good offer was likely to be rejected by you because of your willingness to listen to bad advice, I confess that my fury arose and mastered me. But, Paul, I am of a forgiving nature. I don’t cherish any more anger against you. I came here this morning to repeat my offer, and——”
Mr. Hunt broke off and dived into his overcoat pocket. Apparently, he had just recollected the yellow envelope he now drew out.
“Why, Paul, my boy, I almost forgot! I’ve a message here for you. Dibbs asked me to deliver it.”
“Thank you,” exclaimed the boy, taking the message. “Will you excuse me if I open it? It may be news from Washington.”