If Caleb Gordon had been mildly bewildered by the outward and instantly visible changes in his college-bred son, he was quite lost in wondering admiration when the young man had climbed fairly into the business saddle and gathered his grip on the reins.  Notwithstanding the fact of his stock-holding, Caleb the iron-master had always stood a little in awe of the general office grandeurs; of chief priest Dyckman in particular.  But Tom seemed to recognize no distinctions of class, age, or previous condition of overlordship.  Dyckman was found busily lounging in the absent president’s easy-chair, smoking a good cigar and reading the morning papers.  At the outset he was inclined to be genially supercilious, thus: 

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Gordon!  Hello, Tom!  Back from college, are you?  The books and papers?  They are over in the vaults of the Iron City National—­by Mr. Farley’s orders.  I suppose he thought they’d be safer there in case of fire.  Won’t you sit down and have a fresh cigar?”

What Tom said, or the precise wording of it, Caleb could never remember.  But the staccato sentence or two had the effect of instantly electrifying Mr. Dyckman.  Certainly; whatever Mr. Thomas desired should be done.  He—­Dyckman—­had had no notice of the change in the plans of the company, and Mr. Farley’s instructions—­

Tom cut the oath of fealty short and stated his desires succinctly.  The bookkeeper was to reassemble his office force immediately, taking particular care to reinstate Norman, the correspondence man.  That done, he was to prepare full and complete exhibits of the company’s condition:  assets, liabilities, contracts, in short, the results in statement form of a thorough and searching house-cleaning in the accounting and administrative departments.

“I am going to put you on your good behavior, Dyckman,” said the new tyrant in conclusion, driving the words home with a shrewd sword-thrust of the gray eyes.  “At first I thought I’d bring an expert accountant down here from New York and put him on your books; but I’m going to spare you that—­on one condition.  Those exhibits must be made absolutely without fear or favor; they must contain the exact truth and all of it.  If you tinker them, you’ll not be able to run fast enough nor far enough to get away from me.  Do I make it plain?”

“Very plain, indeed, Mr. Tom; the office boy would catch your meaning, I think.”

“All right, then; gather up your force and pitch in.  I haven’t time to watch you, and I don’t mean to take it.  But I shall know it when you begin to flicker.”

When the two early morning disturbers of Mr. Dyckman’s peace were once more in the street and on the way to the station to take the train for Gordonia and the seat of war, Caleb found speech.

“Son,” he said gravely, “do you know that you’ve made a mighty bitter enemy in the last fifteen minutes?  Dyckman is Farley’s confidential man, and when he gets his knife ground good and sharp he’s goin’ to cut you with it, once for himself and once for his boss.”