“And then I’ve got to learn how dad’s affairs are,” mused Joe. “I may have to pitch in and help him.”
Mr. Matson came from his private office in the Harvester Works, and greeted Joe warmly.
“We didn’t expect you home quite so soon,” he said, as he clasped his son’s hand.
“No, I found out, after I wrote, that I was coming home, that I could get an earlier train that would save me nearly a day, so I took it. But, Dad, what’s this I hear about your financial troubles?”
“Oh, never mind about them, Joe,” was the evasive answer.
“But I want to mind, Dad. I want to help you.”
Mr. Matson went into details, with which I will not tire the reader. Sufficient to say that the inventor had invested some capital in certain stocks and bonds the value of which now seemed uncertain.
“And if I have to lose it—I have to, I suppose,” concluded Joe’s father, resignedly. “Now, my boy, tell me about yourself—and—baseball,” and he smiled, for he knew Joe’s hobby.
Father and son talked at some length, and then, as Mr. Matson had about finished work for the day, the two set out for home together. On the way Joe met his old chum, Tom Davis, and they went over again the many good times in which they had taken part.