Dan was not really feeling very remorseful; he had never felt that he was much to blame; but he had an intellectual perception of the case, and he thought that he ought to feel remorseful; it was this persuasion that he took for an emotion. He continued to look very disconsolate.
“Come,” said his father, touching his arm, “I don't want you to brood upon these things. It can do no manner of good. I want you to go to New York next week and look after that Lafflin process. If it's what he thinks—if he can really cast his brass patterns without air-holes—it will revolutionise our business. I want to get hold of him.”
The Portuguese cook was standing in the basement door which they passed at the back of the house. He saluted father and son with a glittering smile.
“Hello, Joe!” said Dan.
“Ah, Joe!” said his father; he touched his hat to the cook, who snatched his cap off.
“What a brick you are, father!” thought Dan. His heart leaped at the notion of getting away from Ponkwasset; he perceived how it had been irking him to stay. “If you think I could manage it with Lafflin—”
“Oh, I think you could. He's another slippery chap.”
Dan laughed for pleasure and pain at his father's joke.