“I want to give him all the chance there is,” he explained to Carroll. “A boy ought to start where his father left off, and not have to do the same thing all over again. But being a rich man's son isn't much of a job.”
“Why don't you let him continue your business?” smiled Carroll, secretly amused at the idea of the small person before them ever doing anything.
“By the time Bobby's grown up this business will all be closed out,” replied Orde seriously.
He continued to look at his minute son with puckered brow, until Carroll smoothed out the wrinkles with the tips of her fingers.
“Of course, having only a few minutes to decide,” she mocked, “perhaps we'd better make up our minds right now to have him a street-car driver.”
“Yes!” agreed Bobby unexpectedly, and with emphasis.
Three years after this conversation, which would have made Bobby just eight, Orde came back before six of a summer evening, his face alight with satisfaction.
“Hullo, bub!” he cried to Bobby, tossing him to his shoulder. “How's the kid?”
They went out together, while awaiting dinner, to see the new setter puppy in the woodshed.
“Named him yet?” asked Orde.