On the morning following, Arthur heard him moving up and down a little-visited garret of the house.
He was there a long time. Presently he called, "Arthur!"
Arthur obeyed eagerly, his ever-active fear that his father might be tempted to some dreadful act giving wings to his feet.
He found his father kneeling beside a common deal box, the contents of which were flung upon the floor. These contents appeared to consist of old discarded clothing, among which were discernible a blue cloth cap, a rough jacket, and a pair of stained corduroy trousers.
"Do you know what these are, Arthur?"
"No. What are they, father?"
"They're the clothes I used to wear when I was a workman. I've always kept them by me—sort of souvenir, you know. Well, I'm going to wear them again."
"But, father, I don't understand,"
"Don't you?" he said grimly. "Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to work again. Going back to what I was forty years ago. It's as good as a story, isn't it?"
"But you're not going to be a common workman. You surely don't mean that, father."