"All right, Hank."
Young Witherspoon got out of the cab and came up the steps.
"He is waiting for you, Henry." And speaking to the footman, DeGolyer added: "There's nothing the matter. Send those girls about their business."
Young Witherspoon followed DeGolyer into the library. The merchant was standing with his shaky hands on the back of a chair. He stepped forward and tried to speak, but failed.
"I'm your son. Hank did as I told him. It's all right. I've had a fever—he's going to fall, Hank!"
They eased him down into his leather-covered chair.
"I see it now," the old man muttered. "Yes, I can see it. Come here."
The young man leaned over and put his arms about his father's neck. "I will go into the store with you when I get just a little stronger—I will do anything you want me to. I've had an awful time—awful—but it's all right now. Hank found me in New Orleans, scrubbing a floor; but it's all right now."
"I'll get him some brandy," said DeGolyer.
"No," Witherspoon objected, "I'll be myself in a minute. Never was so shocked in my life. Who ever heard of such a thing? Of course you couldn't soften it. Let me look at you, my son. How do I know what to believe? No, there's no mistake now."