Frank, Jr. laughed quietly, and patted his father on the back.
“Dad,” he said, with an affectionate, though bantering air, “what would you think if I should produce a most remarkable improvement upon your Steam Man?”
“You can’t do it!” declared the senior Reade.
Frank, Jr., said no more, but smiled in a significant manner. One day later, the doors of the secret draughting-room of design were tightly locked and young Frank came forth only to his meals.
For three months this matter of closed doors continued. In the machine shop department, where the parts of machinery were secretly put together, the ring of hammers might have been heard, and a big sign was upon the door:
No admittance!
Thus matters were when one evening Frank left his arduous duties to spend a few hours with his wife and little boy.
But just as he was passing out of the yard, a darky, short in stature and of genial features, rushed excitedly up to him.
“Oh, Marse Frank,” cried the sable servitor, “Jes’ wait one moment!”
“Well, Pomp,” said Frank, pleasantly, “what can I do for you?”