There was silence between them for a few minutes. Then Jack answered slowly: “I am not sure of myself at all, Dad, but I can see you must have someone and I am willing to try the planing mill.”
“Thank you, boy,” said his father, stretching his hand quickly across the table, “I will back you up and won't worry you. Within reasonable limits I will give you a free hand.”
“I know you will, Dad,” said Jack, “and of course I have been in the army long enough to know the difference between the O. C. and the sergeant-major.”
“Now, what about Tony?” inquired Maitland, reverting suddenly to what both felt to be a painful and perplexing problem. “What are we to do with him?”
“I will take him on,” said Jack. “I suppose I must.”
“He will be a heavy handicap to you, boy. Is there no other way?”
“I see no other way,” Jack replied. “I will give him a trial. Shall I bring him in?”
“Bring him in.”
In a minute or two Jack returned with Tony. As Maitland's eyes fell upon him, he could not prevent a start of shocked surprise.
“Why, Tony!” he exclaimed. “What in all the world is wrong with you? You are ill.” Trembling, pale, obviously unstrung, Tony stood before him, his shifty eyes darting now at one face, then at the other, his hands restless, his whole appearance suggesting an imminent nervous collapse. “Why, Tony, boy, what is wrong with you?” repeated Maitland. The kindly tone proved too much for Tony's self-control. He gulped, choked, and stood speechless, his eyes cast down to the floor.