“I reckon you won’t mind lunchin’ alone to-day”—­he was shuffling himself into his overcoat—­“because I just thought I’d go up to the house and get this over with mamma.”  He glanced apologetically toward his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat.  The bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three fingers—­the forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated.  “She’s bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than her dinner.  I’ll be back about two.”

But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately that Mrs. Sheridan’s lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from the lonely table when he came into the dining-room.  He had left his overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets.

“What’s the matter, papa?” she asked, quickly.  “Has anything gone wrong?  You ain’t sick?”

“Me!” He laughed loudly.  “Me sick?”

“You had lunch?”

“Didn’t want any to-day.  You can give me a cup o’ coffee, though.”

She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn she said querulously, “I just know there’s something wrong.”

“Nothin’ in the world,” he responded, heartily, taking a seat at the head of the table.  “I thought I’d talk over a notion o’ mine with you, that’s all.  It’s more women-folks’ business than what it is man’s, anyhow.”

“What about?”

“Why, ole Doc Gurney was up at the office this morning awhile—­”

“To look at your hand?  How’s he say it’s doin’?”

“Fine!  Well, he went in and sat around with Bibbs awhile—­”

Mrs. Sheridan nodded pessimistically.  “I guess it’s time you had him, too.  I knew Bibbs—­”

“Now, mamma, hold your horses!  I wanted him to look Bibbs over before anything’s the matter.  You don’t suppose I’m goin’ to take any chances with Bibbs, do you?  Well, afterwards, I shut the door, and I an’ ole Gurney had a talk.  He’s a mighty disagreeable man; he rubbed it in on me what he said about Bibbs havin’ brains if he ever woke up.  Then I thought he must want to get something out o’ me, he go so flattering—­for a minute!  ‘Bibbs couldn’t help havin’ business brains,’ he says, ‘bein’ your son.  Don’t be surprised,’ he says—­’don’t be surprised at his makin’ a success,’ he says.  ’He couldn’t get over his heredity; he couldn’t help bein’ a business success—­once you got him into it.  It’s in his blood.  Yes, sir’ he says, ‘it doesn’t need much brains,’ he says, ’an only third-rate brains, at that,’ he says, ‘but it does need a special kind o’ brains,’ he says, ‘to be a millionaire.  I mean,’ he says, ’when a man’s given a start.  If nobody gives him a start, why, course he’s got to have luck and the right kind o’ brains.  The only miracle about Bibbs,’ he says, ‘is where he got the other kind o’ brains—­the brains you made him quit usin’ and throw away.’”