The Son of his Father

One hundred thousand dollars! What a tremendous sum it sounded viewed from the standpoint of his having to make it. He had never considered it a vast sum before. But now it seemed to grow and grow every time he thought of it. Then he laughed. What stupid things "noughts" were. They meant so much just now, and, in reality, they mean nothing at all. Oh, dear. The whole thing was a terrible trouble. It was worse. It was a tragedy. But—he mustn't give his friends the laugh on him. That would be the last straw. No. The whole thing should remain a secret between his father and himself. He almost broke into a sweat as he suddenly remembered the Press. What wouldn't the Press do with the story. The son and heir of James Carbhoy, the well-known multi-millionaire, leaving home to show the world how to make one hundred thousand dollars in record time! A stupendous farce. Then the swarm of reporters buzzing about him like a cloud of flies in summer time. The prospect was too depressing. Think of the columns in the Press, especially the cheaper Press. They would haunt him from New York to—Timbuctoo! It couldn't be done. He felt certain that in such circumstances suicide would be justifiable. Thoughts such as these swept on through his disturbed brain as he sped up Broadway on his way to say good-by to his mother and sister. He had been lucky in finding his father's high-powered automobile standing outside the palatial entrance of the towering Carbhoy Building. Nor had he the least scruple in commandeering it. His visit to the east side of Central Park was in the nature of a whirlwind. He had no desire to be questioned, and he knew his young sister, Gracie, too well to give her a chance in that direction. Their friends were wont to say that, for one so young—she was only thirteen—she was all wit and intellect. He felt that that was because she was his father's daughter. For himself he was positive she was all precocity and impertinence. And he told himself he was quite unprejudiced. As for his mother, she was one of those gentle Southern women who declare that no woman has the right to question the doings of the male members of her household, and, in spite of the luxury with which she was surrounded, and which she never failed to feel the burden of—she was originally a small farmer's daughter—still yearned for that homely meal of her youth, "supper"—a collation of coffee, cakes, preserves and cold meats. Experience warned him that he must give her no inkling of the real facts. She would be too terribly shocked at the revelation. So, for an hour or more, in the little family circle, in his mother's splendid boudoir, he talked of everything but his own affairs. Nor was it until he was in the act of taking his leave that he warned them both that he was leaving the city for six months. He felt it was a cowardly thing to do, but, having fired his bombshell in their midst, he fled precipitately before its stunning effect had time to pass away.