“I suppose I’m the only man in Indiana that ain’t afraid of Mort Bassett,” he announced casually.  “It’s because Mort knows I ain’t afraid of him that we get on so well together.  You’ve been with him long enough by this time to know that we have some interests together.”

Dan, with his fingers interlocked behind his head, nodded carelessly.  He had grown increasingly resentful of Thatcher’s tone and manner, and was anxious to be rid of him.

“Mort’s a good deal closer-mouthed than I am.  Mort likes to hide his tracks—­better than that, by George, Mort doesn’t make any tracks!  Well, every man is bound to break a twig now and then as he goes along.  By George, I tear down the trees like an elephant so they can’t miss me!”

As Dan made no reply to this Thatcher recurred in a moment to Allen and Harwood’s annoyance passed.  It was obvious that the capitalist had sought this interview to talk of the boy, to make sure that Harwood was sincerely interested in him.  Thatcher’s manner of speaking of his son was kind and affectionate.  The introduction of Bassett into the discussion had been purely incidental, but it was not less interesting because of its unpremeditated interjection.  There was possibly some jealousy here that would manifest itself later; but that was not Dan’s affair.  Bassett was beyond doubt able to take care of himself in emergencies; Dan’s admiration for his patron was strongly intrenched in this belief.  The bulkier Thatcher, with the marks of self-indulgence upon him, and with his bright waistcoat and flashy necktie transcending the bounds of good taste, struck him as a weaker character.  If Thatcher meditated a break with Bassett, the sturdier qualities, the even, hard strokes that Bassett had a reputation for delivering, would count heavily against him.

“I’m glad you get on so well with the boy,” Thatcher was saying.  “I don’t mind telling you that his upbringing has been a little unfortunate—­too much damned Europe.  He’s terribly sore because he didn’t go to college instead of being tutored all over Europe.  It’s funny he’s got all these romantic ideas about America; he’s sore at me because he wasn’t born poor and didn’t have to chop rails to earn his way through college and all that.  The rest of my family like the money all right; they’re only sore because I didn’t make it raising tulips.  But that boy’s all right.  And see here—­” Thatcher seemed for a moment embarrassed by what was in his mind.  He fidgeted in his chair and eyed Harwood sharply.  “See here, Harwood, if you find after awhile that you don’t get on with Bassett, or you want to change, why, I want you to give me a chance at you.  I’d like to put my boy with you, somehow.  I’ll die some day and I want to be sure somebody’ll look after him.  By God, he’s all I got!”

He swung round, but his eyes were upon the floor; he drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily.