Gideon Whipple mercifully broke in while Harvey D. floundered upon an inconclusive period.  Gideon was not nervous, and saw little need for strategy with this rather vagabondish fellow.

“In short, Mr. Cowan, my son offers to adopt that boy of yours—­make him his own son in name—­and opportunities and advantages—­his own son.”

So it was only that!  Dave drew a long, pleasant breath and wiped his brow.  Then he took a pencil from the table and began to draw squares and triangles and diamond patterns upon a pad of soft paper that lay at hand.

“Well—­I don’t know.”  His eyes followed the pencil point.  Nor did he know until it presently developed that the desired adoption was of the Merle twin.  He had supposed, without debate, that they would be meaning the other.  “You mean Merle,” he said at last on some leading of Gideon’s.

“To be sure!” said Harvey D., as if there could have been no question of another.

“Oh, him!” said Dave—­there was relief in his tone.  “You’re sure you mean him?”

“But of course!” said Harvey D., brightening.

“All right,” said Dave.  He felt they were taking the wrong twin, but he felt also that he must not let them see this—­they might then want the other.  “All right, I’ll agree to that.  He’s a bright boy; it ought to be a good thing for him.”

“Ought to be!” quoted Harvey D. with humorous warmth.  “But, of course, it will be!  You realize what it will mean for him—­advantages, opportunities, education, travel, family, a future!—­the Whipple estate—­but, of course, we feel that under our training he will be a credit to us.  He will be one of us—­a Whipple in name and in fact.”

Dave Cowan ceased to draw angled designs on his pad; he now drew circles, ovals, ellipses, things fluent with curves.

“All right,” he said, “I’m willing, I want to do the best I can for the boy.  I’m glad you feel he’s the right one for you.  Of course the other boy—­well, they’re twins, but he’s different.”

“We are certain you will never regret it,” said Harvey D., warmly.

“We feel that you are wise to agree,” said Gideon.  “So then—­”

“Papers to sign?” said Dave.

“Our lawyer will have them to-morrow,” said Harvey D.

“Good!” said Dave.

He was presently back at his case, embalming for posterity the knowledge that Grandma Milledge was able to be out again these sunny days after a hard tussle with her old enemy sciatica.  But before passing to the next item he took Gideon’s choice cigar from the upper waistcoat pocket, crumpled it, rubbed it to fine bits between the palms of his hands, and filled the calabash pipe with its debris.  As he smoked he looked out the window that gave on River Street.  Across the way was the yellow brick structure of the bank he had just left.  He was seeing a future president of that sound institution, Merle Whipple, born Cowan.  He was glad they hadn’t