Orde's brow puckered.
“I know a man—Bobby is going to work. A man is not a success in life unless he does something, and Bobby is going to be a success. Why, Taylor,” he chuckled, “the little rascal fills the wood-box for a cent a time, and that's all the pocket-money he gets. He's saving now to buy a thousand-dollar boat. I've agreed to pool in half. At his present rate of income, I'm safe for about sixty years yet.”
“How soon are you going to close this deal?” asked Taylor, rising as he caught sight of two figures coming up the walk.
“I have an option until November 1,” replied Orde. “If you can't make it, I guess I can swing it myself. By the way, keep this dark.”
Taylor nodded, and the two turned to defend themselves as best they could against Clara's laughing attack.
XXXI
Orde had said nothing to Newmark concerning this purposed new investment, nor did he intend doing so.
“It is for Bobby,” he told himself, “and I want Bobby, and no one else, to run it. Joe would want to take charge, naturally. Taylor won't. He knows nothing of the business.”
He walked downtown next morning busily formulating his scheme. At the office he found Newmark already seated at his desk, a pile of letters in front of him. Upon Orde's boisterous greeting his nerves crisped slightly, but of this there was no outward sign beyond a tightening of his hands on the letter he was reading. Behind his eye-glasses his blue, cynical eyes twinkled like frost crystals. As always, he was immaculately dressed in neat gray clothes, and carried in one corner of his mouth an unlighted cigar.