Walter had wisely concluded that the rash scheme of working his way to the Isthmus should be explained to the family with a good deal of care and tact. To break it to them suddenly would be too much like an explosion. When he tramped into the sitting-room, the welcome was as ardent as if he had been absent for months instead of days. Eleanor and her mother fluttered about him. Supper had been kept warm for him. Was he quite sure the melting snow had not wet his feet?
His father asked, when the excitement had subsided: "Well, what luck, my son?"
Assuming his best bass voice, as man to man, Walter answered: "New York is chuck-full of strong and willing lads anxious to run their legs off for four or five dollars a week. Without throwing any bouquets at myself, I think I ought to be worth more than that to somebody. You see, I couldn't pay for my board and washing, much less give the family income a boost."
"Did my letters help you?"
"Yes, I had an offer of four per from the hardware man. I told him I should have to think it over. Wolverton is as dead as a doornail, but I can do better than that as a day laborer."
"I hate to think of your quitting school," sighed his father; "but perhaps you can graduate next year." He tried to hide his anxiety by adding quite briskly: "We have a great deal to be thankful for, and this—er—this period of business depression is only temporary, I am sure."
"I seem to be so perfectly useless," pensively murmured Eleanor. "Poetry doesn't pay at all well, even if you are a genius, and then you are supposed to starve to death in a garret."
Walter grinned and pulled her flaxen braid as a token of his high esteem.
"You are mother's little bunch of sunshine," said he, "and as first assistant house-keeper you play an errorless game."
With what was meant to be a careless manner, Walter turned to his father and exclaimed: