“No.”

“Well, I did.  I told him the conditions and asked his advice.  Among other things, I spoke of this pipe pit of yours, and he said at once, ’There is your chance.  Cast-iron water-pipe is like bread, or sugar, or butcher’s meat—­it’s a necessity, in good times or bad.  If that machine is practicable, you can make pipe for less than half the present labor cost.’  Then we talked ways and means.  Money is tighter than a shut fist—­up East as well as everywhere else.  But men with money to invest will still bet on a sure thing.  Mr. Clarkson advised me to try our own banks first.  Failing with them, he authorized me to call on him.  Now you know where I’m digging my sand.”

The old iron-master sat back in his chair with his hands locked over one knee, once more taking the measure of this new creation calling itself Tom Gordon and purporting to be his son.

“Say, Buddy,” he said at length, “are there many more like you out yonder in the big road?—­young fellows that can walk right out o’ school and tell their daddies how to run things?”

Tom’s laugh was boyishly hearty.

“Plenty of ’em, pappy; lots of ’em!  The old world is moving right along; it would be a pity if it didn’t, don’t you think?  But about this pipe business:  I want you to make over these patents to me.”

“They’re yours now, Tom; everything I’ve got will be yours in a little while,” said the father; but his voice betrayed the depth of that thrust.  Was the new Tom beginning so soon to grasp and reach out avariciously for the fruit of the old tree?

“You ought to know I don’t mean it that way,” said Tom, frowning a little.  “But here is the way it sizes up.  There is money in this pipe-making; some money now, and big money later on.  Farley has refused to go into it unless you make it a company proposition; as president and a controlling stock-holder you can’t very well go into it now without making it in some sort a company proposition.  But you can transfer the patents to me, and I can contract with Chiawassee Consolidated to make pipe for me.”

Caleb Gordon’s frown matched that of his son.

“That would certainly be givin’ Colonel Duxbury a dose of his own medicine; but I don’t like it, Tom.  It looks as if we were taking advantage of him.”

“No.  I’d make the proposition to him, personally, if he were here, and the boss; and he’d be a fool if he didn’t jump at it,” said Tom earnestly.  “But there is more to it than that.  If we make a go of this, and don’t protect ourselves, the two Farleys will come back and put the whole thing in their pockets.  I won’t go into it on any such terms.  When they do come back, I’m going to have money to fight them with, and this is our one little ghost of a chance.  Ring up Judge Bates and get him to come over here and make a legal transfer of these patents to me.”