Unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while Jefferson was thinking what to say.  The last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly: 

“That’s just it, sir.  You forget that I’m no longer a boy.  It’s time to treat me as if I were a man.”

Ryder, Sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“A man at twenty-eight?  That’s an excellent joke.  Do you know that a man doesn’t get his horse sense till he’s forty?”

“I want you to take me seriously,” persisted Jefferson.

Ryder, Sr., was not a patient man.  His moments of good humour were of brief duration.  Anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him.  The smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively:  “Go on—­damn it all!  Be serious if you want, only don’t take so long about it.  But understand one thing.  I want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle.  No Tolstoi—­he’s a great thinker, and you’re not.  No Bernard Shaw—­ he’s funny, and you’re not.  Now go ahead.”

This beginning was not very encouraging, and Jefferson felt somewhat intimidated.  But he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in.

“I should have spoken to you before if you had let me,” he said.  “I often—­”

“If I let you?” interrupted his father.  “Do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform?  You asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and I told you that I worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time.  Thinking is a harder game than any.  You must think or you won’t know.  Napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together.  I know more about money than any man living to-day.  The man who knows is the man who wins.  The man who takes advice isn’t fit to give it.  That’s why I never take yours.  Come, don’t be a fool, Jeff—­give up this art nonsense.  Come back to the Trading Company.  I’ll make you vice-president, and I’ll teach you the business of making millions.”

Jefferson shook his head.  It was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured: 

“It’s impossible, father.  I am devoted to my work.  I even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world.  It will help me considerably.”

Ryder, Sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently: 

“Don’t be obstinate, Jeff.  Listen to me.  I know the world better than you do.  You mustn’t go away.  You are the only flesh and blood I have.”

He stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control.  Jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter.  Seeing that his words had made no effect, Ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried: