He was a tall, athletic looking fellow, with a fine face, a straightforward look in his eyes and a clean-cut air about him that was pleasant to behold. Jarrod had recognized him as the only son of a man he had known in St. Louis—a man very prominent and wealthy, he remembered.
"What are you doing here, Jim?" he enquired.
"Why, I live in Chicago now, you know," was the reply.
"You do?"
"Didn't you know, sir? I left home over a year ago. I'm hoeing my own row now, Mr. Jarrod."
"What's wrong, Jim?"
"Father and I couldn't agree. He wanted me to take to the patent medicine business, because he has made a fortune in it."
"Very natural," nodding.
"The poor father suffers a good deal from rheumatism, you know; so as soon as I left college he proposed to turn over to me the manufacture and sale of his great rheumatism cure."
"Ah."