“You asked me, pa, not to speak of Flywheel Bob to you; so I only spoke about him to myself.”
“Well, I do declare!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman in a tone of utter amazement; then, after staring at her for nearly a minute, he rose up and passed into his private room, thinking what a very odd being Daisy was. “She is her poor, dear mother over again,” he muttered. “I never could quite understand Margaret, and now I cannot understand Daisy.”
Mr. Goodman had not been long in his study when a visitor was announced. The one who presently made his appearance was as unlike the benevolent and scrupulous gentleman who came here once to beg the manufacturer to become president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals—as unlike him, we repeat, as a man could possibly be.
This man’s name was Fox; and verily there was something of his namesake about him. Explain it as we may, we do occasionally meet with human beings bearing a mysterious resemblance to some one of the lower animals; and if Mr. Fox could only have dwindled in size,
then dropped on his hands and knees, we should have fired at him without a doubt, had we discovered him near our hen-roost of a moonlight night.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Fox,” said Mr. Goodman, motioning to him to be seated. “I sent for you to talk about important business.”
“At your service, sir,” replied the other, with a twinkle in his gray eye which pleased Daisy’s father; for it seemed to say, “I am ready for any kind of business.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Goodman; then, after tapping his fingers a moment on the table: “Now, Mr. Fox, I would like you to proceed at once to Albany. Can you go?”
Mr. Fox nodded.
“Very good. And when you are there, sir, I wish you to exert yourself to the utmost to prevent the passage of a bill known as ‘The Bill for the protection of factory children.’”