"A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well give him his way."
Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what he said was:
"I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be had by doing what he's elected to do."
Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not backward; and I've found it does very well."
One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and looked at Anthony.
"I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is not a skilled one."
"No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."
"Your capitals do not tower enough," said Tom Horn; "your round letters are too full in the belly, and your loops are squat." He peered at Anthony over the great ledger, the candle on either side toning out the transparent quality of his skin but adding to the worn expression; the shadows made the deep-set eyes seem deeper, the hope in them more despairing. "To give smoothness to your hand," said he, "you should study some one who took pride in such things." He nodded, his gaze holding to the young man's face. "Back before my day with the firm's books, there was a man of the name of Lucas who wrote a very useful hand. And Carberry, who came after him, also had a well-ordered pen. You would do well to give attention to both; but, of the two, Lucas would give you most for your effort."
"I have not yet come to Lucas's period in the books," said Anthony; "nor yet Carberry's. But when I do I'll remember what you say."
The winter drew on, a series of bitter nights and gray, wind-driven days; the report came that the bay was a mass of great floes, and that sledges heavily burdened were venturing a mile or more from shore on either side. The roads were filled with hard-packed snow; wheeled vehicles had not been seen for weeks.