“Show ’em in,” Sir Archibald growled.
What happened need not be described. It was both melancholy and stormy without; there was a roaring tempest within. Sir Archibald was not used to giving way to aggravation; but he was now presently embarked on a rough sea of it, from which, indeed, he had difficulty in reaching quiet harbour again. It was not the first interview he had had with the skipper and clerk of the Black Eagle since that trim craft had returned from the French Shore trade. But it turned out to be the final one. The books of the Black Eagle had been examined; her stores had been appraised, her stock taken, her fish weighed. And the result had been so amazing that Sir Archibald had not only been mystified 313 but enraged. It was for this reason that when Skipper George Rumm, with Tommy Bull, the rat-eyed little clerk, left the presence of Sir Archibald Armstrong, the prediction of the clerk had come true: there were two able-bodied seamen looking for a berth on the streets of St. John’s. First of all, however, they set about finding Tom Tulk o’ Twillingate; but this, somehow or other, the discreet Tom Tulk never would permit them to do.
By Sir Archibald’s watch it was now exactly 2:47. Sir Archibald rose from the chair that was his throne.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I had hoped–––”
Again the pale little clerk put his head in at the door. This time he was grinning shamelessly.
“Well?” said Sir Archibald. “What is it?”
“Master Archie, sir.”
Archie shook hands with his father in a perfunctory way. Sir Archibald’s cheery greeting––and with what admiration and affection and happiness his heart was filled at that moment!––Sir Archibald’s cheery greeting failed in his throat. Archie was prodigiously scowling. This 314 was no failure of affection; nor was it an evil regard towards his creditor, who would have for him, as the boy well knew, nothing but the warmest sympathy. It was shame and sheer despair. In every line of the boy’s drawn face––in his haggard eyes and trembling lips––in his dejected air––even in his dishevelled appearance (as Sir Archibald sadly thought)––failure was written. What the nature of that failure was Sir Archibald did not know. How it had come about he could not tell. But it was failure. It was failure––and there was no doubt about it. Sir Archibald’s great fatherly heart warmed towards the boy. He did not resent the brusque greeting; he understood. And Sir Archibald came at that moment nearer to putting his arms about his big son in the most sentimental fashion in the world than he had come in a good many years.
“Father,” said Archie, abruptly, “please sit down.”