The Clarion. Samuel Hopkins Adams

how you and I feel toward each other on anything that comes up between us, Boyee." There was a grave gentleness in Dr. Surtaine's tone. "Well, there are the papers," he added, more briskly. "I haven't put all your eggs in one basket, you see."

      Going over the certificates Hal found himself possessed of fifty thousand dollars in the stock of the Mid-State and Great Muddy Railroad: an equal sum in the Security Power Products Company; twenty-five thousand each in the stock of the Worthington Trust Company and the Remsen Savings Bank; one hundred thousand in the Certina Company, and fifty thousand in three of its subsidiary enterprises. Besides this, he found five check-books in the large envelope which contained his riches.

      "What are these, Dad?" he asked.

      "Cash on deposit in local and New York banks. You might want to do some investing of your own. Or possibly you might see some business proposition you wanted to buy into."

      "I see some Security Power Products Company certificates. What is that?"

      "The local light, heat, and power corporation. It pays ten per cent. Certina never pays less than twenty. The rest is all good for six, at least and the Mid-and-Mud averages eight. You've got upwards of thirty-seven thousand income there, not counting your deposits. While you're looking about, deciding what you're going to do, it'll be your own money and nobody else's that you're spending."

      "Do you think many fathers would do this sort of thing, Dad?" said Hal warmly.

      "Any sensible one would. I don't want to own you, Boyee. I want you to own yourself. And to make yourself," he added slowly.

      "If I can make myself like you, Dad—"

      "Oh, I'm a good-enough piece of work, for my day and time," laughed the father. "But I want a fine finish on you. While you're looking around for your life-work, how about doing a little unpaid job for me?"

      "Anything," cried Hal. "Just try me."

      "Do you know what an Old Home Week is?"

      "Only what I read in to-day's paper announcing the preliminary committee."

      "That gave you enough idea. We make a big thing of Old Home Week in Worthington. This year it will be particularly big because it's the hundredth anniversary of the city. The President of the United States will be here. I'm to be chairman of the general committee, and I want you for my secretary."

      "Nothing I'd like better, sir."

      "Good! All the moneyed men in town will be on the committee. The work will put you in touch with the people who count. Well, that settles our business. Good luck to you in your independence, Boyee." He touched a bell. "Any one waiting to see me, Jim?" he asked the attendant.

      "Yes, sir. The Reverend Norman Hale."

      "Send him in."

      "Shall I go, Dad?" asked Hal.

      "Oh, you might take a little ramble around the shop. Go anywhere. Ask any questions of anybody. They all know you."

      At the door, Hal passed a tall, sinewy young man with heavy brows and rebellious hair. A slight, humorous uptilt to his mouth relieved the face of impassivity and saved it from a too formal clericalism. The visitor was too deeply concerned with some consideration of his inner self to more than glance at Hal, who heard Dr. Surtaine's hearty greeting through the closing door.

      "Glad to see you, Mr. Hale. Take a chair."

      The visitor bowed gravely and sat down.

      "You've come to see me about—?"

      "Your subscription to the East End Church Club Fund."

      "I am heartily in sympathy with the splendid work your church is doing in the—er—less salubrious parts of our city," said Dr. Surtaine.

      "Doubtless," returned the young clergyman dryly.

      "Seems to be saving his wind," thought Dr. Surtaine, a little uneasily. "I suppose it's a question," he continued, aloud, "of the disposition of the sum—"

      "No: it is not."

      If this bald statement required elucidation or expansion, its proponent didn't seem to realize the fact. He contemplated with minute scrutiny a fly which at that moment was alighting (in about the proportion of the great American eagle) upon the pained countenance of Old Lame-Boy.

      "Well?" queried the other, adding to himself, "What the devil ails the man!"

      The scrutinized fly rose, after the manner of its kind, and (now reduced to normal scale) touched lightly in its exploratory tour upon Dr. Surtaine's domed forehead. Following it thus far, the visitor's gaze rested. Dr. Surtaine brushed off the insect. He could not brush off the regard. Under it and his caller's continued silence he grew fidgety.

      "While I'm very glad," he suggested, "to give you what time you need—"

      "I've come here because I wanted to have this thing out with you face to face."

      "Well, have it out," returned the other, smiling but wary.

      The young clergyman drew from his pocket a folded newspaper page to which was pinned an oblong of paper. This he detached and extended to the other.

      "What's that?" asked the doctor, making no motion to receive it, for he instantly recognized it.

      "Your check."

      "You're returning it?"

      "Without thanks."

      "You mean to turn down two thousand dollars!" demanded the other in slow incredulity.

      "Exactly."

      "Why?"

      "Is that question asked in good faith?"

      "It is."

      "Then you haven't seen the letter written by the superintendent of our Sunday School to the Certina Company."

      "What kind of a letter?"

      "A testimonial letter—for which your two thousand dollars is payment, I suppose."

      "Two thousand for a church testimonial!" Dr. Surtaine chuckled at his caller's innocence. "Why, I wouldn't pay that for a United States Senator. Besides," he added virtuously, "Certina doesn't buy its testimonials."

      "Then it's an unfortunate coincidence that your check should have come right on top of Mr. Smithson's very ill-advised letter."

      By a regular follow-up mechanism devised by himself, every donation by Dr. Surtaine was made the basis of a shrewd attempt to extract from the beneficiary an indorsement of Certina's virtues, or, if not that, of the personal character and professional probity of its proprietor. This is what had happened in the instance of the check to Mr. Hale's church, Smithson being the medium through whom the attempt was made.

      The quack saw no occasion to explain this to his inquisitor. So he merely said: "I never saw any such letter," which was, in a literal sense, true.

      "Nor will you know anything about it, I suppose, until the name of the church is spread broadcast through your newspaper advertising."

      Now, it is a rule of the patent medicine trade never to advertise an unwilling testimonial because that kind always has a kick-back. Hence:—

      "Oh, if you feel that way about it," said Dr. Surtaine disdainfully, "I'll keep it out of print."

      "And return it to me," continued the other, in a tone of calm sequentiality, which might represent either appeal, suggestion, or demand.

      "Don't see the point," said the quack shortly.

      "Since you do not intend to use it in your business, it can't be of any value to you," countered the other.

      "What's its value to you?"

      "In plain words, the honor of my church is involved. The check is a bribe. The letter is the graft."

      "Nothing of the sort.