Youth Challenges. Clarence Budington Kelland

his father's physical presence stood for and expressed his theory of being. Tall, unbending, slender, aristocratic, intellectual—the pose of the body, the poise of the head, even that peculiar, slanting set of the lips expressed perfectly the Bonbright Foote idea. Five generations had bred him to be the perfect thing it desired.

      "Well, sir," he said, coldly. Bonbright arose. There was a formality about the situation which seemed to require it. "Good morning," he said, in a low tone.

      "I have seen the papers."

      "Yes, sir."

      "What they printed was in substance true?"

      "I prefer not—to discuss it, sir."

      "And I prefer TO discuss it … Do you fancy you can drag the name of Foote through the daily press as though it were that of some dancing girl or political mountebank, and have no reference made of it? Tell me exactly what happened last night—and why it was permitted to happen."

      "Father—" Bonbright's voice was scarcely audible, yet it was alive and quivering with pain. "I cannot talk to you about last night."

      The older man's lips compressed. "You are a man grown—are supposed to be a man grown. Must I cross-examine you as if you were a sulking schoolboy?"

      Bonbright was not defiant, not sulkily stubborn. His night's experiences had affected, were affecting him, working far-reaching changes in him, maturing him. But he was too close to them for their effect to have been accomplished. The work was going on each moment, each hour. He did not reply to his father immediately, but when he did so it was with a certain decision, a firmness, a lack of the old boyishness which was marked and distinct.

      "You must not cross-question me. There are things about which one's own father has not the right to ask. … If I could have come to you voluntarily—but I could not. In college I have seen fellows get into trouble, and the first thing they thought of was to go to their fathers with it … It was queer. What happened last night happened to ME. Possibly it will have some effect on my family and on the name of Foote, as you say … But it happened to ME. Nobody else can understand it. No one has the right to ask about it."

      "It happened to YOU! Young man, you are the seventh Bonbright Foote—member of a FAMILY. What happens to you happens to it. You cannot separate yourself from it. You, as an individual, are not important, but as Bonbright Foote VII you become important. Do you imagine you can act and think as an entity distinct from Bonbright Foote, Incorporated? … Nonsense. You are but one part of a whole; what you do affects the whole, and you are responsible for it to the shops."

      "A man must be responsible to himself," said Bonbright, fumbling to express what was troubling his soul. "There are bigger things than family … "

      His father had advanced to the desk. Now he interrupted by bringing his hand down upon it masterfully. "For you there is no bigger thing than family. You have a strange idea. Where did you get it? Is this sort of thing being taught in college to-day? I suppose you have some notion of asserting your individuality. Bosh! Men in your position, born as you have been born, have no right to individuality. Your individuality must express the individuality of your family as mine has done, and as my father's and HIS father's did before me … I insist that you explain fully to me what occurred last night."

      "I am sorry, sir, but I cannot."

      There was no outburst of passion from the father; it would have been wholly out of keeping with his character. Bonbright Foote VI was a strong man in his way; he possessed force of character—even if that force were merely a standardized, family-molded force of character. He recognized a crisis in the affairs of the Foote family which must be met wisely. He perceived that results could not be obtained through the violent impact of will; that here was a dangerous condition which must be cured—but not by seizing it and wrenching it into place … Perhaps he could make Bonbright obey him, but if matters were as serious as they seemed, it would be far from wise. The thing must be dealt with patiently, firmly. Here was only a symptom; the disease went deeper. For six generations one Bonbright Foote after another had been born true to tradition's form—the seventh generation had gone askew! It must be set right, remolded.

      "Let me point out to you," said he, "that you are here only because you are my son and the descendant of our forefathers. Aside from that you have no right to consideration or to position. You possess wealth. You are a personage … Suppose it were necessary to deprive you of these things. Suppose, as I have the authority to do, I should send you out of this office to earn your own living. Suppose, in short, I should find it necessary to do as other fathers have done—to disown you … What then? What could you do? What would your individuality be worth? … Think it over, my son. In the meantime we will postpone this matter until you revise your mood."

      He turned abruptly and went into his own room. He wanted to consider. He did not know how to conduct himself, nor how to handle this distressing affair … He fancied he was acting wisely and diplomatically, but at the same time he carried away with him the unpleasant consciousness that victory lay for the moment with his son. Individuality was briefly triumphant. One thing was clear to him—it should not remain so. The Bonbright Foote tradition should be continued correctly by his son. This was not so much a determination as a state of mind. It was a thing of inevitability.

      Bonbright's feeling as his father left him was one of utter helplessness, of futility. He had received his father's unveiled threat and later it would have its effect. For the moment it passed without consideration. First in his mind was the fact that he did not know what to do—did not even know what he WANTED to do. All he could see was the groove he was in, the family groove. He did not like it, but he was not sure he wanted to be out of it. His father had talked of individuality; Bonbright did not know if he wanted to assert his individuality. He was at sea. Unrest grappled with him blindly, urging him nowhere, seeming merely to wrestle with him aimlessly and maliciously … What was it all about, anyhow? Why was he mixed up in the struggle? Why could not he be left alone in quiet? If he had owned a definite purpose, a definite ambition, a describable desire, it would have been different, but he had none. He was merely bitterly uncomfortable without the slightest notion what event or course of action could bring him comfort.

      One thought persisted through the chaos of his surging thoughts. He must call in Ruth Frazer and explain to her that he had not done what the papers said he did. Somehow he felt he owed her explanation, her of all the world.

      She entered in response to the button he pushed, but there was not the broad smile—the grin—he looked up eagerly to see. She was grave, rather more than grave—she was troubled, so troubled that she did not raise her eyes to look at him, but took her seat opposite him and laid her dictation book on the desk.

      "Miss Frazer—" he said, and at his tone she looked at him. He seemed very young to her, yet older than he had appeared before. Older he was, with a tired, haggard look left by his sleepless night. She could not restrain her heart from softening toward him, for he was such a boy—just a boy.

      "Miss Frazer," he said again, "I want to—talk to you about last night—about what the papers said."

      If he expected help from her he was disappointed. Her lips set visibly.

      "It was not true—what they said … I sha'n't explain it to anybody else. What good could it do? But I want you to understand. It seems as if I HAVE to explain to you. … I can't have you believing—"

      "I didn't read it in the papers," she said. "I heard from an eyewitness.

      "Mr. Dulac," he said. "Yes, he would have seen. Even to him it might have looked that way—it might. But I didn't—I didn't! You must believe me. I did not run to the police to have them charge the strikers again … Why should I?"

      "Why should you?" she repeated, coldly.

      "Let me tell you … I went there—out of curiosity, I guess. This whole strike came so suddenly. I don't understand why strikes and troubles like this must be, and I thought I might find out something if I went and watched … I wasn't taking sides. I don't know who is right and who is wrong. All I wanted was to learn. One thing