Mr. Abel Newt threw his leg over the arm of the chair and looked at his boot.  Mr. Boniface Newt threw his head around suddenly and fiercely.

“And what’s Sinker’s commission?  How much money do you suppose he has to put in?  How much stock will he take?”

“He has sold out in the Mallow Mines to put in,” said Abel, a little doggedly.

“Are you sure?”

“He says so,” returned Abel, shortly.

“Don’t believe a word of it!” said his father, tartly, turning back again to his desk.

Abel put both hands in his pockets, and both feet upon the ground, side by side, and rocked them upon the heels backward and forward, looking all the time at his father.  His face grew cloudy—­more cloudy every moment.  At length he said,

“I think we’d better do it.”

His father did not speak or move.  He seemed to have heard nothing, and to be only inwardly cursing the state of things revealed by the books and papers before him.

Abel looked at him for a moment, and then, raising his voice, continued: 

“As one of the firm, I propose that we sell out the Bilbo and buy into the Canal.”

Not a look or movement from his father.

Abel jumped up—­his eyes black, his face red.  He took his hat and went to the door, saying,

“I shall go and conclude the arrangement!”

As he reached the door his father raised his eyes and looked at him.  The eyes were full of contempt and anger, and a sneering sound came from his lips.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

The young man glanced sideways at his parent.

“Who will prevent me?”

“I!” roared the elder.

“I believe I am one of the firm,” said Abel, coldly.

“You’d better try it!” said the old man, disregarding Abel’s remark.

Abel was conscious that his father had this game, at least, in his hands.  The word of the young man would hardly avail against a simultaneous veto from the parent.  No transaction would stand a moment under such circumstances.  The young man slowly turned from the door, and fixing his eyes upon his father, advanced toward him with a kind of imperious insolence.

“I should like to understand my position in this house,” said he, with forced calmness.

“Good God!  Sir, a bootblack, if I choose!” returned his father, fiercely.  “The unluckiest day of my life was when you came in here, Sir.  Ever since then the business has been getting more and more complicated, until it is only a question of days how long it can even look respectable.  We shall all be beggars in a month.  We are ruined.  There is no chance,” cried the old man, with a querulous wail through his set teeth.  “And you know who has done it all.  You know who has brought us all to shame and disgrace—­to utter poverty;” and, rising from his chair, the father shook his clenched hands at Abel so furiously that the young man fell back abashed.