In this peaceful
backwater he could smoke a pipe, put his feet up, take off his
coat, and generally indulge in that liberty and pursuit of
happiness to which the Constitution entitles a free-born
American. Nobody ever came there except Jimmy and himself.
He did not suspend his reading at his son's entrance. He muttered
a welcome through the clouds, but he did not raise his eyes.
Jimmy took the other arm-chair, and began to smoke silently. It
was the unwritten law of the den that soothing silence rather
than aimless chatter should prevail. It was not until a quarter
of an hour had passed that Mr. Crocker dropped his paper and
spoke.
"Say, Jimmy, I want to talk to you."
"Say on. You have our ear."
"Seriously."
"Continue--always, however, keeping before you the fact that I am
a sick man. Last night was a wild night on the moors, dad."
"It's about your stepmother. She was talking at breakfast about
you. She's sore at you for giving Spike Dillon lunch at the
Carlton. You oughtn't to have taken him there, Jimmy. That's what
got her goat. She was there with a bunch of swells and they had
to sit and listen to Spike talking about his half-scissors hook."
"What's their kick against Spike's half-scissors hook? It's a
darned good one."
"She said she was going to speak to you about it. I thought I'd
let you know."
"Thanks, dad. But was that all?"
"All."
"All that she was going to speak to me about? Sure there was
nothing else?"
"She didn't say anything about anything else.
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