"These are hard times in Wall Street, my boy," Huntington answered him, "and many a rich man's son has to cut his corners. If your father has written you that I advise you to follow his instructions. He isn't a man to say it unless he means it.—I'll gladly help you out while you're getting adjusted."
"Thank you, Mr. Huntington, but perhaps I won't need it. Even cut in two my allowance is bigger than most of the boys'."
"Fathers are so inconsiderate," Billy yawned; "very few of them understand their sons."
"A paraphrase of the old saw, Billy," Huntington commented. "To-day we would say that it is a wise stock which knows its own par."
"Or a wise corn which knows its own popper," laughed Billy.
"Or a wise beast which knows its own fodder," Philip added,—"now we're all even!"
"Speaking of fodder," Billy said, showing renewed signs of life, "let's go down to the Copley-Plaza and get something to eat."
"After the dinner you ate?" Huntington demanded.
"That was over two hours ago, and I'm as hollow as a tin can. Come on, Phil."
"You can't be serious, Billy," insisted Huntington.