Jonathan Brent was a small man, small and narrow, with a lean and wrinkled face, shrewd but not unkindly, and a pair of gimlet-like, blue-gray eyes. His face was clean-shaven and the grizzled brown hair had retreated until the top of his head was as bald and shining as the white-enameled newel-post at the foot of the Merricks’ stairway. His mouth was thin and set in a firm, straight line, a line that never altered as, presently, he laid down the paper in his hand and raised his gaze to Gordon’s.
“Well, what do you want, my boy?” he asked, in a quick but not unpleasant voice.
“I came to see you about the athletic field, Mr. Brent,” responded Gordon. “I heard yesterday that you intend to cut it up for building lots, sir.”
“Quite right. What of it?”
“Well, sir, you see we’ve been using it for baseball, and some of us are getting up a nine to play this summer, and I wondered if you’d let us use it until you got ready to—to build on it.”
“Oh! I see. What’s your name? Herrick?”
“Merrick, sir; Gordon Merrick.”
“Ellis Merrick’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know your father. Are you in the High School?”