“But, heavens and earth! you wouldn’t turn the property over to Gordon, would you?”

The younger man’s smile was a mere contortion of the lips.  “It’s a sucked orange,” he said.  “Let the old man have it.  He may work a miracle of some sort and pull out alive.  I should call it a snap, and take him up too quick.  If he wins out, so much the better for all concerned.  If he doesn’t, why, we left the property entirely in his hands, and he smashed it.  Don’t you see the beauty of it?”

The president wheeled short on Tom.

“What you may think you are extorting, my dear boy, you are going to get through sheer good-will and a desire to give your father every chance in the world,” he said blandly.  “We discussed the plan of electing him vice-president, with power to act, before we left home, but there seemed to be some objections.  We are willing to give him full control—­and this altogether apart from any foolish threats you have seen fit to make.  Bring your legal counsel to Room 327 after breakfast and we will go through the formalities.  Are you satisfied?”

“I shall be a lot better satisfied after the fact,” said Tom bluntly; and he turned away to avoid meeting Major Dabney and the ladies, who were coming from the elevator to join the two early risers.  He had seen next to nothing of Ardea during the three Boston years, and would willingly have seen more.  But the new manhood was warning him that time was short, and that he must not mix business with sentiment.  So Ardea saw nothing but his back, which, curiously enough, she failed to recognize.

Picking up his cab at the curb, Tom had himself driven quickly to the office of the corporation lawyer whose name he had obtained from Mr. Clarkson the day before, and with whom he had made a wire appointment before leaving Boston.  The attorney was waiting for him, and Tom stated the case succinctly, adding a brief of the interview which had just taken place at the hotel.

“You say they agreed to your proposal?” observed the lawyer.  “Did Mr. Farley indicate the method?”

“No.”

“Have you a copy of the by-laws of your company?”

Tom produced the packet of papers received that morning from his father, and handed the required pamphlet to Mr. Croswell.

“H’m—­ha! the usual form.  A stock-holders’ meeting, with a resolution, would be the simplest way out of it; but that can’t be held without the published call.  You say your father is a stock-holder?”

“He has four hundred and three of the original one thousand shares.  I hold his proxy.”

The attorney smiled shrewdly.

“You are a very remarkable young man.  You seem to have come prepared at all points.  I assume that you are acting under your father’s instructions?”

“Why, with his approval, of course,” Tom amended.  “But it is my own initiative, under the advice of a good friend of mine in Boston, thus far.  Oh, I know what I’m about,” he added, in answer to the latent question in the lawyer’s eyes.