“Wealthy!” cried Eric; “why, Randolph’s the head of the big Boston bond syndicate. He’s one of the slickest financiers in this country. Look here, Phil,” turning to a page in the ledger; “just notice this entry. When Mr. Randolph came here with the family, he deposited in our bank ten thousand in cold cash. He and Mrs. Randolph may both check against the account, but you see she’s only drawn a little over a thousand dollars, so far. That’s the sort of a customer we like, and if Mr. Randolph can let ten thousand lie idle in a country bank he must have scads of money.”
Then Eric discussed the elaborate entertainment of yesterday and dwelt perpetually upon the money the Randolphs must be possessed of, until Phil was thoroughly annoyed.
“What does it matter, Eric?” he said. “Money can’t buy everything, in this world.”
“What can’t it buy?” demanded Eric, astonished.
“It can’t buy happiness, or health, or—”
“That’s rubbish, Phil. Give a fellow plenty of money and he’s bound to be happy; he can’t help it. And as for health, money gets the best and most skillful doctors and surgeons in the land, and they’ll cure a rich man where a poor man will die. There isn’t anything, old man, that money won’t do.”
“Then you ought to be satisfied, Eric. Your father is the richest man in Riverdale, except perhaps Mr. Randolph, and you are his only child.”
“Oh, it’ll come to me in time, I guess,” returned Eric, carelessly; “but just now the gov’nor holds me in pretty tight lines. How in blazes can he expect a young fellow to live on my salary? Why, it’s preposterous!”
Phil did not reply to this. It was none of his business.
In some ways this association with Eric was not of the most pleasant description. The two boys had grown up together in the village and had always been friends in a way; but now that Phil was thrown more closely into Eric’s companionship he discovered many traits in his nature that did not seem wholly admirable.