Something, however, must be done, and the something must result in his son’s becoming what he wanted his son to become.  Bonbright must be grasped and shoved into the family groove and made to travel and function there.  There could be no surrender, no wavering, no concession made by the family. ...  The boy must be made into what he ought to be—­but how?  And he must have his lesson for this day’s scene.  He must be shown that he could not, with impunity, outrage the Family Tradition and flout the Family Ghosts. ...  Again—­how?

What Bonbright intended in his present state of boyish rage and revolt, his father did not consider.  It was characteristic of him that he failed to think of that.  All his considerations were of what he and the Family should do to Bonbright. ...  A general would doubtless have called this defective strategy.  To win battles one must have some notion of the enemy’s intentions—­and of his potentialities. ...  His determination—­set and stiff as cold metal—­ was that something unpleasant should happen to the boy and that the boy should be brought to his senses. ...  If anyone had hinted to him that the boy was just coming to his senses he would have listened as one listens to a patent absurdity.

He pressed the buzzer which summoned Rangar, and presently that soft-footed individual appeared silently in the door—­looking as Mr. Foote had never seen him look before.  Rangar was breathing hard, he was flustered, his necktie was awry, and his face was ivory white.  Also, though Mr. Foote did not take in this detail, his eyes smoldered with restrained malignancy.

“Why, Rangar,” said Mr. Foote, “what’s wrong?”

“Wrong, Mr. Foote! ...  I—­It was Mr. Bonbright.”

“What about Mr. Bonbright?”

“A moment ago he came rushing out of his office—­I use the word rushing advisedly. ...  He was in a rage, sir.  He was, you could see it plain.  I—­I was in his way, sir, and I stepped aside.  But he wouldn’t have it.  No, sir, he wouldn’t. ...  He reached out, Mr. Foote, and grabbed me; yes, sir, grabbed me right before the whole office.  It was by the front of the shirt and the necktie, and he shook me. ...  He’s a strong young man. ...  And he said, ’You’re the sneak that’s been running to father with lies,’ and then he shook me again.  ‘I suppose,’ he says in a second, ’that I’ve got to expect to be spied on. ...  Go ahead, it’s a job that fits you.’  Yes, sir, that’s exactly what he said in his own words.  ‘Fits me,’ says he.  And then he shook me again and threw me across the alleyway so that I fell over on a desk.  ‘Spy ahead,’ he says, so that everybody in the office heard him and was snickering at me, ’but report what you see after this—­and see to it it’s the truth. ...  One more lie like this one,’ he says, and then stopped and rushed on out of the office.  It was a threat, Mr. Foote, and he meant it.  He means me harm.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Foote, holding himself resolutely in the character he had built for himself.  “A fit of boyish temper.”