“Patricia,” said his father. “She told me a long story of a terrible accident to Tony that had called you away to Toronto. I must say it was rather incoherent.”
“But who told her? I swear not a soul knew but his people and myself,” said Jack.
“Strange how things get out,” said his father. “Well, where is Tony now?”
“Here, in the outer office.”
“But,” said Maitland, desperately, “where can we place him? He is impossible in any position—dangerous in the office, useless as a foreman, doubtful and uncertain as a workman.”
“One thing is quite certain,” said Jack decidedly, “he must be under discipline. He is useless on his own. I thought that perhaps he might work beside me. I could keep an eye on him. Tony has nothing in him to work with. I should like to hear old Matheson on him—the Reverend Murdo, I mean. That is a great theme of his—'To the man who has nothing you can give nothing.'”
“Matheson?” said Maitland. “A chum of yours, I understand. Radical, eh?”
“A very decent sort, father,” replied Jack. “I have been doing a little economics with him during the winter. His radicalism is of a sound type, I think. He is a regular bear at economics and he is even better at the humanity business, the brother-man stuff. He is really sound there.”
“I can guess what you mean,” said his father, “though I don't quite catch on to all your jargon. But I confess that I suspect there is a whole lot of nonsense associated with these theories.”
“You will pardon me, Dad,” said Jack, “if I suggest that your education is really not yet complete.”