Old Jerry stared at him in mute consternation.
“Considering that I am your only son, you might give me a better welcome,” said James, carefully closing the door, and sinking into a chair.
“Go away, go away!” said the old man, hoarsely. “You—you are a bold, bad man, and I don’t want to see you.”
“Come, dad, that is unkind!” said James Barclay, in a bantering tone. “You mustn’t forget that I am your son.”
“I wish I could forget it,” muttered the old man.
“I am not so bad as you think I am, father. Seeing that we are all that is left of the family, it’s only right that we should live friendly. I’m glad to see you are not so poor as you pretend.”
“You—you are mistaken, James,” whined old Jerry. “I am very poor.”
“That don’t go down, dad. What were you doing when I came in?”
Old Jerry looked confused.
“How many gold pieces have you got there? Let me count them.”