The effect of the change on Steve was to make him almost rollicking in his manner, as if he and Mr. Bannister were the nucleus of an Old Home Week celebration or two old college chums meeting after long absence. Nervousness, on the rare occasions when he suffered from it, generally had that effect on him.
He breezed into the library, carrying the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig, and trailing William in his wake. William’s grandfather was seated with his back to the door, dictating a letter to one of his secretaries.
He looked up as Steve entered. He took in Steve and William in a rapid glance and guessed the latter’s identity in an instant. He had expected something of this sort ever since he had heard of his grandson’s birth. Indeed, he had been somewhat surprised that the visit had not occurred before.
He betrayed no surprise.
“One moment, Dingle,” he said, and turned to the secretary again. A faint sneer came and went on his face.
The delay completed Steve’s discomfiture. He placed the wheel harrow on the floor, the box of bricks on the wheelbarrow, and the dying pig on the box of bricks, whence it was instantly removed and inflated by William.
“ ‘Referring to your letter of the eighth—’ ” said Mr. Bannister in his cold, level voice.
He was interrupted by the incisive cry of the dying pig.
“Ask your son to be quiet, Dingle,” he said impassively.
Steve was staggered.
“Say, this ain’t my son, squire,” he began breezily.
“Your nephew, then, or whatever relation he happens to be to you.”
He resumed his dictation. Steve wiped his forehead and looked helplessly at the White Hope, who, having discarded the dying pig, was now busy with the box of bricks.
Steve wished he had not come. He was accustomed to the primitive exhibition of emotions, having moved in circles where the wrathful expressed their wrath in a normal manner.
Anger which found its expression in an exaggerated politeness was out of his line and made him uncomfortable.
After what seemed to him a century, John Bannister dismissed the secretary. Even then, however, he did not come immediately to Steve. He remained for a few moments writing, with his back turned. Then, just when Steve had given up hope of ever securing his attention, he turned suddenly.
“Well?”
“Say, it’s this way, colonel,” Steve had begun, when a triumphant cry from the direction of the open window stopped him. The White Hope was kneeling on a chair, looking down into the street.
“Bix,” he explained over his shoulder.
“Kindly ring the bell, Dingle,” said Mr. Bannister, unmoved. “Your little nephew appears to have dropped his bricks into Fifth Avenue.”
In answer to the summons Keggs appeared. He looked anxious.
“Keggs,” said Mr. Bannister, “tell one of the footmen to go out into the avenue and pick up some wooden bricks which he will find there. Dingle’s little brother has let some fall.”
As Keggs left the room Steve’s pent-up nervousness exploded in a whirl of words.
“Aw say, boss, quit yer kiddin’. You know this kid ain’t anything to do with me. Why, say, how would he be any relation of a roughneck like me? Come off the roof, bo. You know well enough who he is. He’s your grandson. On the level.”
Mr. Bannister looked at William, now engaged in running the wheelbarrow up and down the room, emitting the while a curious sound, possibly to encourage an imaginary horse. The inspection did not seem to excite him or afford him any pleasure.
“Oh!” he said.
Steve was damped, but resumed gamely:
“Say, boss, this is the greatest kid on earth. I’m not stringing you, honest. He’s a wonder. On the level, did you ever see a kid that age with a pair of shoulders on him like what this kid’s got? Say, squire, what’s the matter with calling the fight off and starting fair? Miss Ruth would be tickled to death if you would. Can the rough stuff, colonel. I know you think you’ve been given a raw deal, Kirk chipping in like that and copping off Miss Ruth, but for the love of Mike, what does it matter? You seen for yourself what a dandy kid this is. Well, then, check your grouch with your hat. Do the square thing. Have out the auto and come right round to the studio and make it up. What’s wrong with that, colonel? Honest, they’d be tickled clean through.”
At this point Keggs entered, followed by a footman carrying wooden bricks.
“Keggs,” said Mr. Bannister, “telephone for the automobile at once—”
“That’s the talk, colonel,” cried Steve joyfully. “I know you were a sport.”
“⸺to take me down to Wall Street.”
Keggs bowed.
“Oh Keggs,” said Mr. Bannister, as he turned to leave.
“Sir?”
“Another thing. See that Dingle does not enter the house again.”
And Mr. Bannister resumed his writing, while Steve, gathering up the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig, took William by the hand and retreated.
That terminated Ruth’s attempts to conciliate her father.
There remained Bailey. From Bailey she was prepared to stand no nonsense. Meeting him on the street, she fairly kidnapped him, driving him into a taxicab and pushing him into the studio, where he was confronted by his nephew.
Bailey came poorly through the ordeal. William Bannister, a stern critic, weighed him up in one long stare, found him wanting, and announced his decision with all the strength of powerful lungs. In the end he had to be removed, hiccupping, and Bailey, after lingering a few uneasy moments making conversation to Kirk, departed, with such a look about the back of him as he sprang into his cab that Ruth felt that the visit was one which would not be repeated.
She went back into the studio with a rather heavy heart. She was fond of Bailey.
The sight of Kirk restored her. After all, what had happened was only what she had expected. She had chosen her path, and she did not regret it.
