“Yes; he had the typhoid fever—my poor, poor Otto,” and Mr. Silverthorn wiped his eyes with a dirty red silk handkerchief. “Have you a father living, my young friend?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it would be a gratification to me if you would look upon me as a parent.”
Grant was quite overwhelmed by this unexpected suggestion.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “but you are a stranger, and I have a step-father living.”
He said this on the impulse of the moment, as a reason for not acceding to Mr. Silverthorn’s request, but it occurred to him that it would be about as difficult to regard Mr. Tarbox with filial feelings as the newcomer.
“Ah, he is indeed fortunate!” sighed Mr. Silverthorn. He had a habit of sighing. “My friend”—here he addressed himself to the blacksmith—“do you ever smoke?”
“Yes, when I get the chance.”
“And have you, perchance, a cigar?”
“No; a cigar is too high-toned for me. I have a pipe.”