“I know your brother Kirk better’n I do the rest of you. I see a good deal of him up at the Mercantile Club. Kirk’s a good boy and looks to me like he’s goin’ to make his Dad proud. You ain’t old enough to drink whiskey, are you? I guess not this time of the morning, anyway. Well, have a cigar.”
He thrust out a spacious box.
“Colonel,” said Potter, “you may be surprised at what I’m here for. I’m in a kind of a fix, a bad fix, to tell the truth, and I need money. I’ve got twenty-eight hundred in the National Trust but I can’t draw on it for two years, without my father’s consent. I want to get two hundred and fifty dollars on a note for that length of time.”
As he mentioned the amount it seemed so enormous to Potter that he felt a little absurd. He had never handled more than fifty dollars at a time in his life.
“I see. H’m.”
The older man was smoking a well-used meerschaum and took a few puffs on it in silence, looking at Potter quickly once or twice with a more penetrating and appraising glance than at first. The latter noticed, in spite of the Colonel’s genial expression, that his eyes, in reflection, became a very cold and impersonal grey.
“H’m, that’s bad,” said the Colonel. “You see, your pa and me are old pals. Now, why don’t you go over and tell him what the trouble is? There’s nothin’ in the world you could tell John Osprey that he wouldn’t understand. There ain’t a thing, son.”
“I think there is, Colonel,” said Potter gravely.
“Some girl trouble?”
“Yes.”