“It’s for me. I’m Mr. Holdney!” exclaimed the other quickly. “From Mr. Matson, eh? Well tell him I can’t help him any more. I haven’t any spare—but wait a minute, I’ll write my answer.”
“Hadn’t—you—better—read—the—letter—first,” mildly and slowly suggested Mr. Jackson.
“Humph! I know what it is all right!” exclaimed the other quickly. “But I’ll read it. Let’s have it!” He almost snapped it from the lad’s hand and Joe wondered what could be the business relations between his father and this man.
With a flourish and a quick motion Mr. Holdney tore open the envelope and read the letter almost at a glance.
“Hum!” he exclaimed. “Just as I expected. No, I’m done with that business. I can’t do any more. You may tell your father—hold on, though, I’ll write it,” and, whipping out a lead pencil Mr. Holdney scribbled something on the back of Mr. Matson’s note.
“So you’re John Matson’s son; eh?” he asked of Joe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hum! Go to school?”
“Yes, the Riverside High.”