“Well, this was about ten days ago. And then I went after the market. I went to a man I met last year in an advertising office, and for fifty dollars we put an ad in the Sunday Times. After that there was nothing to do but wait. The next day—nothing doing! I was here at seven-thirty and I went through every mail. Not a single answer to my ad—and I thought I was busted! But Tuesday morning there were three, with five dollar checks inside of ’em! In the afternoon there were two more and the next day eleven! By the end of last week we’d had forty-six! Friday I put in another ad and there’ve been over seventy more since then! That makes a hundred and twenty in all—six hundred dollars! And I’m swamped! I ain’t done nothing yet—I’ve just kept ’em all for you to see!”
He went quickly to the table, gathered a pile of letters there and brought them over to Roger’s desk. Roger glanced over a few of them, dazed. He looked around into John’s shrewd face, where mingled devotion and triumph and business zeal were shining.
“Johnny,” he said huskily, “you’ve adopted my business and no mistake.” John swallowed again and scowled with joy.
“Let’s figure it out!” he proposed.
“We will!”
They were at it all day, laying their plans, “adopting” the work of the office to the new conditions. They found they would need a larger force, including a French and a German translator. They placed other ads in the papers. They forgot to have lunch and worked steadily on, till the outer rooms were empty and still. At last they were through. Roger wearily put on his cuffs, and went and got his coat and hat.
“Say, Mr. Gale,” John asked him, “how about this letter—the one you dictated this morning to that firm about your house?” Roger turned and looked at him.
“Throw it into the basket,” he said. “We’ll write ’em another tomorrow and tell ’em we have changed our minds.” He paused for just a moment, and then he added brusquely, “If this goes through as I hope it will, I guess you’d better come into the firm.”
And he left the room abruptly. Behind him there was not a sound.
At home in his study, that evening, he made some more calculations. In a few weeks he would have money enough to start Edith and her family in their new life on the farm. For the present at least, the house was safe.
“Why, father.” Edith came into the room. “I didn’t know you had come home. What kept you so long at the office?”
“Oh, business, my dear—”
“Have you had any supper?”
“No, and I’d like some,” he replied.
“I’ll see to it myself,” she said. Edith was good at this sort of thing, and the supper she brought was delicious. He ate it with keen relish. Then he went back to his study and picked up a book, an old favorite. He started to read, but presently dozed. The book dropped from his hands and he fell asleep.
He awakened with a start, and saw Deborah looking down at him. For a moment he stared up, as he came to his senses, and in his daughter’s clear gray eyes he thought he saw a happiness which set his heart to beating fast.
“Well?” he questioned huskily.
“We’re to be married right away.”
He stared a moment longer; “Oh, I’m so glad, so glad, my dear. I was afraid you—” he stopped short. Deborah bent close to him, and he felt her squeeze his arm:
“I’ve been over and over all you said,” she told him, in a low sweet voice. “I had a good many ups and downs. But I’m all through now—I’m sure you were right.” And she pressed her cheek to his. “Oh, dad, dad—it’s such a relief! And I’m so happy! … Thank you, dear.”
“Where is Allan?” he asked presently.
“I’ll get him,” she said. She left the room, and in a moment Allan’s tall ungainly form appeared in the doorway.
“Well, Allan, my boy,” Roger cried.
“Oh, Roger Gale,” said Allan softly. He was wringing Roger’s hand.
“So she decided to risk you, eh,” Roger said unsteadily. “Well, Baird, you look like a devilish risk for a woman like her—who has the whole world on her back as it is—”
“I know—I know—and how rash she has been! Only two years and her mind was made up!”
“But that’s like her—that’s our Deborah—always acting like a flash—”
“Stop acting like children!” Deborah cried. “And be sensible and listen to me! We’re to be married tomorrow morning—”
“Why tomorrow?” Roger asked.
“Because,” she said decidedly, “there has been enough fuss over this affair. So we’ll just be married and have it done. And when Edith and the children go up next week to the mountains, we want to move right into this house.”
“This house?” exclaimed her father.
“I know—it’s sold,” she answered. “But we’re going to get a lease. We’ll see the new owner and talk him around.”
“Then you’ll have to talk your father around—”
“You around?” And Deborah stared. “You mean to say you’re not going to sell?”
“I do,” said Roger blithely. He told them the story of John’s new scheme. “And if things turn out in the office as I hope they will,” he ended, “we’ll clear the mortgage on the house and then make it your wedding gift—from the new firm to the new family.”
Deborah choked a little:
“Allan! What do you think of us now?”
“I think,” he answered, in a drawl, “that we’d better try to persuade the new firm to
