This announcement appeared greatly to relieve the old man. "Oh, you'll succeed in life, my dear young man; but really you ought to come into the store with us. It would do your father so much good; he would feel that he has a sure hold on the future, you understand. You don't know what a comfort Brooks is to me. Why, if my daughter had married a man in any other line, I—well, it would have been a great disappointment. Are you going back to work now?"
"No; to the Press Club."
"Why don't you come to see us oftener?"
"Oh, I'm there often enough, I should think—two or three times a week."
"Yes, of course, but we are all so anxious that you should become interested in our work. Don't discourage yourself with the belief that a man brought up in the South is not a good business man. I am from the South, my dear Mr. Witherspoon."
They had reached the sidewalk, and the roar from the street impelled the old man to force his squeaky voice into a split shout.
"Southern man"—He was bumped off by the passing throng, but he got back again and shouted: "Southern man has just as good commercial ability as anybody. Well, I must leave you here."