“Bub,” said the old man finally, “I lost a boy when I was ’bout your age. Nobody in Paris ever knew about it. It was them lines helped me most of all. Great stuff—poetry!”
II
Through Caleb’s maneuvering it was, some time later, that Nathan was called one afternoon into Ted Thorne’s offices at the knitting mill.
“Nat,” announced that young commercial dignitary, “the old man and I have been talking you over. Gridley was in here the other day—you know who I mean—old duffer who used to run the tannery. Well, he owns a rotten lot of stock in this mill. Put it in when dad first started. And the old man goes by Gridley’s advice a lot. Seems old Gridley’s scraped up an interest in you somewhere and first father and I knew, old Caleb was cussin’ like a Malay pirate and laying down the law about how we ought to reconstruct our sales force. But it looks as if we might get drawn into the war and we’re watching our step.”
“Yes, it does look like war,” returned Nat gravely. “I just read the President’s message to Congress this morning.”
“It’s this way, Nat. Mosely, who’s been running our New York offices, is unmarried. He’ll probably go if they call for volunteers. He says he wants to go, anyhow. You’re married and have your wife and mother to care for, and probably you’ll get exempted, if they resort to a draft. So dad and I put two and two together—Mosely’s going to war and Gridley’s cussin’ in your behalf—and I’m prepared to make you a proposition.”
“But why should Mr. Gridley do any such thing? I’ve got a fair position already.”
Ted smoked a moment in silence, loath to prod into Nat’s personal affairs. But apparently it had to be.
“Nat, you married old Jake Richards’ oldest girl, didn’t you? I remember her as a kid in school—she sat across the aisle from me in a couple of the early grades.”
“Yes. But what of it?”