“That’s all right, son. Good night.”
“Just a minute. I—I—well, if you let me, I’d like to thank you and—and ask your pardon.”
“Granted, my boy. And never mind the thanks, either. Just keep on thinkin’ and actin’ as you have to-night, and I’ll be satisfied. I want to see my nephew makin’ a man of himself—a real man; and, Steve, you talk more like a man to-night than I’ve ever heard you. Stick to it, and you’ll do yet. As for goin’ to work, you let me chew on that for a few days.”
The next morning he called on Sylvester, who in turn took him to a friend of his, a broker—employing a good-sized staff of clerks. The three had a consultation, followed, the day after, by another. That evening the captain made a definite proposal to Stephen. It was, briefly, that, while not consenting to the latter’s leaving college, he did consider that a trial of the work in a broker’s office might be a good thing. Therefore, if the young man wished, he could enter the employ of Sylvester’s friend and remain during July and August.
“You’ll leave about the first of September, Steve,” he said, “and that’ll give you time for the two weeks vacation that you ought to have. Then you can go back to Yale and pitch in till the next summer, when the same job’ll be ready for you. After you’re through college for good, if what you’ve learned about brokerin’ ain’t cured you of your likin’ for it—if you still want to go ahead with it for your life job, then—well, then we’ll see. What do you say?”
Stephen had a good deal to say, principally in the line of objection to continuing his studies. Finding these objections unavailing, he agreed to his guardian’s proposition.
“All right,” said the captain; “then you can go to work next Monday. But you’ll have to work, and be just the same as any other beginner, no better and no worse. There’ll be no favoritism, and, if you’re really wuth your salt, you won’t want any. Show ’em, and me, that you’re wuth it.”
The novel, the wonderful tale which Captain Elisha was certain would make its author famous, was finished that very day in June when Stephen came back from New Haven. The question of title remained, and the “clinic,” now reënforced by Steve—whose dislike for Pearson had apparently vanished with others of his former likes and dislikes—considered that at several sessions. At last “The Man at the Wheel” was selected, as indicating something of the hero’s profession and implying, perhaps, a hint of his character. Then came the fateful task of securing a publisher. And the first to whom it was submitted—one of the two firms which had already expressed a desire to read the manuscript—accepted it, at what, for a first novel, were very fair terms. During the summer there was proof to be read and illustrations to be criticized. Captain Elisha did not wholly approve of the artist’s productions.
“Jerushy!” he exclaimed, “look at that mainmast! Look at the rake of it! More like a yacht than a deep-water bark, she is enough sight. And the fust mate’s got a uniform cap on, like a purser on a steamboat. Make that artist feller take that cap off him, Jim. He’s got to. I wish he could have seen some of my mates. They wa’n’t Cunarder dudes, but they could make a crew hop ’round like a sand-flea in a clam bake.”
Or, when the picture happened to be a shore view: