“Where do you want me to go?” he asked quietly. “France?”
“Siberia!”
Thorne made the announcement as he might have named Rutland, Bennington or Troy, New York.
“What!”
“Here’s the story, Nat. About eight months ago we manufactured a lot of shirts for the Russian government. Ships were at a premium to transport goods across the Atlantic. Beside, they might be subject to seizure going up through the Baltic if the German fleet came out. So we routed those goods across America and shipped them over the Pacific. But you know what’s happening up in Russia. And here we are, with about forty thousand dollars’ worth of goods stuck somewhere in the Orient, and what’s going to become of them if we don’t send a representative to look out for them, the Lord only knows. Nat, the directors couldn’t give you that New York job because of the impediment your wife was—I’d just as soon say so now. But we can give you this trip and a bigger job when you get back, if the war turns out the way we hope. We want you to go to Vladivostok within the next thirty days and look after the placing of those goods in the hands of the proper parties.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Nathan. “A mere trifle! What else?”
“Nat, old man, we’ve got confidence that you can work it out, or we wouldn’t send you. We’ll get your passports and routing—to sail from San Francisco on or about the first of April. And you can have until that time to wind up your affairs. You may be gone a devil of a time and circle the world before you get back. But it’ll be a college education and I don’t want you to refuse.”
“I’ll go—of course,” assented the lad. But for a time his gaze was blank.
He was thinking of his father, last heard from in Japan—directly in his route.