Bruce Cunningham had married just after he left law school.  He had worked in a law office which took receiverships by the score, and through managing bankrupt concerns by slow degrees he had made himself a financial surgeon.  He had set up an office of his own and was doing splendidly.  But he worked under fearful tension.  Bruce had to deal with bankrupts who had barely closed their eyes for weeks, men half out of their minds from the strain, the struggle to keep up their heads in those angry waters of finance which Roger vaguely pictured as a giant whirlpool.  Though honest enough in his own affairs, Bruce showed a genial relish for all the tricks of the savage world which was as the breath to his nostrils.  And at times he appeared so wise and keen he made Roger feel like a child.  But again it was Bruce who seemed the child.  He seemed to be so naive at times, and Edith had him so under her thumb.  Roger liked to hear Bruce’s stories of business, when Edith would let her husband talk.  But this she would not often do, for she said Bruce needed rest at night.  She reproved him now for staying so late, she wrung from him the fact that he’d had no supper.

“Well, Bruce,” she exclaimed impatiently, “now isn’t that just like you?  You’re going straight home—­that’s where you’re going—­”

“To be fed up and put to bed,” her husband grumbled good-naturedly.  And while she made ready to bundle him off he turned to his father-in-law.

“What do you think’s my latest?” he asked, and he gave a low chuckle which Roger liked.  “Last week I was a brewer, to-day I’m an engineer,” he said.  “Can you beat it?  A building contractor.  Me.”  And as he smoked his cigarette, in laconic phrases he explained how a huge steel construction concern had gone to the wall, through building skyscrapers “on spec” and outstripping even the growth of New York.  “They got into court last week,” he said, “and the judge handed me the receivership.  The judge and I have been chums for years.  He has hay fever—­so do I.”

“Come, Bruce, I’m ready,” said his wife.

“I’ve been in their office all day,” he went on.  “Their general manager was stark mad.  He hadn’t been out of the office since last Sunday night, he said.  You had to ask him a question and wait—­while he looked at you and held onto his chair.  He broke down and blubbered—­the poor damn fool—­he’ll be in Matteawan in a week—­”

“You’ll be there yourself if you don’t come home,” broke in Edith’s voice impatiently.

“And out of that poor devil, and out of the mess his books are in, I’ve been learning engineering!”

He had followed his wife out on the steps.  He turned back with a quick appealing smile: 

“Well, good-night—­see you soon—­”

“Good-night, my boy,” said Roger.  “Good luck to the engineering.”

“Oh, father dear,” cried Edith, from the taxi down below.  “Remember supper Sunday night—­”