For over an hour they wrangled, going into the
questions of cost, of time, of heating, of ventilation, scarcely looking
up from the plans until a figure in a checked suit flung open the door,
letting in a draught of air that scattered the papers on the desk.
"Hello, Dad," said the new-comer, with a friendly nod to Dan, "I'm sorry
to disturb you, but I only have a minute."
"Which I should accept gratefully, I suppose, as my share of your busy
day?" Mr. Clarke tried to look severe, but his eyes softened.
"Well, I just got up," said Mac, with an ingratiating smile, as he
smoothed back his shining hair before the mirror in the hat-rack.
"Running all night, and sleeping half the day!" grumbled Mr. Clarke. "By
the way, what time did you get in last night?"
Mac made a wry face.
"_Et tu, Brute?_" he cried gaily. "Mother's polished me off on that
score. I have not come here to discuss the waywardness of your prodigal
son. Mr. Clarke, I have come to talk high finance. I desire to
negotiate a loan."
"As usual," growled his father. "I venture to say that Dan Lewis here,
who earns about half what you waste a year, has something put away."
"But Dan's the original grinder. He always had an eye for business. Used
to win my nickel every Sunday when we shot craps in the alley back of the
cathedral. Say, Dan, I see you've still got that handsome thoroughbred
cur of yours! By George, that dog could use his tail for a jumping rope!"
Dan smiled; he couldn't afford to be sensitive about Growler's beauty.
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