"I will tell you, Boy," says she, comin' up confidential. "You see, I must trust someone in this matter. And you will be right here, where you can see him every day, won't you—my son Mortimer, I mean?"
"I expect I'll have to," says I, "if he sticks."
"Then you must do this for me," she goes on. "Keep close to him. Make yourself his friend."
"Me?" says I. "Well, there might be some trouble about that."
"I understand," says she. "It will be difficult, under the circumstances. And Mortimer has such a proud, reserved nature! He has always been that way. But now that he is thrown upon his own resources, and if you could once gain his confidence, he might allow you to—well, you'll try, won't you? And then I shall depend upon you to send word to me once every week as to how he looks, if he seems happy, how he is getting on in business, and so on. Come, do you promise?"
"Is this a case of philanthropy, or what?" says I.
"Oh, I shall see that you are well repaid," says she.
"That listens well," says I; "but it's kind of vague. Any figures, now?"
"Why—er—yes," says she, hesitatin'. "Suppose I should send you, say, five dollars for every satisfactory report?"
"Then I'm on the job," says I.