Sir Archibald laughed pleasantly.
“Don’t make fun of me, father,” said Archie. “I’m in dead earnest.”
“How much is it, son?” This was an ancient joke between the two. Both laughed.
“You’d be surprised if you knew,” the boy returned. “But look here, father! please don’t take it in that way. I’m really in earnest.”
“It’s money, son,” Sir Archibald insisted. “I know it is.”
“Yes,” said Archie, with a grave frown; “it is money. It’s a good deal of money. It’s so much money, dad, that you’ll sit up when you hear about it.” 196
Sir Archibald looked sharply into his son’s grave eyes. “Ahem!” he coughed. “Money,” he mused, “and a good deal of it. What’s the trouble, son?”
“No trouble, father,” said Archie; “just a ripping good chance for fun and profit.”
Sir Archibald moved to the chair behind a broad flat-top desk by the window. This was the queer little throne from which all business problems were viewed. It was from the shabby old chair––with a broad window behind––that all business judgments were delivered. Did an outport merchant want credit in any large way, it was from the opposite chair––with the light falling full in his face through the broad window––that he put the case to Sir Archibald. Archie sat down in that chair and leaned over the desk. Sir Archibald stretched his legs, put his hands deep in his pockets, let his chin fall on his breast and stared searchingly into his son’s face. The rain was driven noisily against the windows; the fire crackled and glowed. As between the two at the desk there was a momentary silence.
“Well?” said Sir Archibald, shortly.