“To drum up business?”

“Yes, sir.”  Roger looked at him aghast.

“John,” he asked, in deep reproach, “do you expect this office to feed the vanity of thieves?”

“Where’s the vanity,” John rejoined, “in being called a crime wave?” And seeing the sudden tremor of mirth which had appeared on Roger’s face, “Look here, Mr. Gale,” he went eagerly on.  “When every paper in the town is telling these fellers where they belong—­calling ’em crooks, degenerates, and preaching regular sermons right into their faces—­why shouldn’t we help ’em to read the stuff?  How do we know it won’t do ’em good?  It’s church to ’em, that’s what it is—­and business for this office.  Nine of these guys have sent in their money just in the last week or so—­”

“Look out, my boy,” said Roger, with slow and solemn emphasis.  “If you aren’t extremely careful you’ll find yourself a millionaire.”

“But wait a minute, Mr. Gale—­”

“Not in this office,” Roger said.  “Send ’em back, every one of ’em!  Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply.  And with a little sigh of regret John turned his wits to other kinds and conditions of New Yorkers who might care to see themselves in print.

As they worked together day by day, Roger had occasional qualms over leaving John here in the hot town while he himself went up to the mountains.  He even thought of writing to Edith that he was planning to bring John, too.  But no, she wouldn’t like it.  So he did something else instead.

“John,” he said, one morning, “I’m going to raise your salary to a hundred dollars a month.”  Instantly from the lad’s bright eyes there shot a look of triumph.

“Thanks, Mr. Gale,” was his hearty response.

“And in the meantime, Johnny, I want you to take a good solid month off.”

“All right, sir, thank you,” John replied.  “But I guess it won’t be quite a month.  I don’t feel as if I needed it.”

The next day at the office he appeared resplendent in a brand-new suit of clothes, a summer homespun of light gray set off by a tie of flaming red.  There was nothing soft about that boy.  No, Johnny knew how to look out for himself.

And Roger went up to the farm.

CHAPTER XXIII

George met him at the station, as he had done a year before.  But at once Roger noticed a difference.  In the short time since his father’s death certain lines had come in the boy’s freckled face, and they gave him a thoughtful, resolute look.  George’s voice was changing.  One moment it was high and boyish, again a deep and manly bass.  As he kept his eyes on the horses and talked about his mother, his grandfather from time to time threw curious side glances.