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My doubts are whether it's the best thing for you." "Don't you want me to go into it, Dad?" "Of course I want you with me, Boyee. But well, frank and flat, I don't know whether it's genteel enough for you." "Genteel?" The younger Surtaine repeated the distasteful adjective with surprise. "Some folks make fun of it, you know. It's the advertising that makes it a fair mark. 'Certina, they say.
There's no epidemic, Boyee." "Well, there's something. People are dying down there faster than they ought to. It's spread beyond the Rookeries now." This was no news to the big doctor. But it was news to him that Hal knew it. "How do you know?" he asked. "I've been down there and ran right upon it." The father's affection and alarm outleapt his caution at this.
Don't do all that damage and spoil everything just for a false delusion, Boyee." But Hal's mind was brooding on the fatal promise which he had so confidently made his father. One way out there was. "Since it's a question of my word to you," he said, "I could still publish the truth about Milly Neal." "No. You couldn't do that, Boyee," said his father in a tone, half sorrowful, half shamed. "No.
"You better keep away from there, Boyee," he warned anxiously. "If there's no epidemic, why should I keep away?" "There's always a lot of infection down in those tenements," said Dr. Surtaine lamely. "Dad, when you made your report for the 'Clarion' did you tell us all you knew?" "All except some medical technicalities," said the Doctor, who never told a lie when a half-lie would serve.
"Not a bit of it. No more than just, Boyee. So let the thanks go." "All right, sir. But you know how I feel about it." "I guess I know just about 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."
You're not looking right." "Oh, I'm well enough: a little sleeplessness, that's all." He did not deem it necessary to tell his father that upon his white nights the unforgettable face of Esmé Elliot had gleamed persistently from out the darkness, banishing rest. "Suppose you let me do some of the worrying, Boyee." "Haven't you enough troubles in your own business, Dad?" smiled Hal.
"Prying into the secrets of the trade?" chuckled the elder man. "But if I'm coming into the shop, to learn " "Right you are, Boyee," interrupted his father buoyantly. "There's the formula for making profits." He swept his hand about in a spacious circle, grandly indicating the advertisement-bedecked walls. "There's where the brains count.
Always his counsel was for peace and policy. "Keep in with the business element, Boyee. Remember all the time that Worthington is a business city, the liveliest little business city between New York and Chicago. Business made it. Business runs it. Business is going to keep on running it.
I'm not ambitious socially. I told you some folks don't like the business. It's too noisy. But you won't throw out any echoes. You'll go, Boyee?" "Since you want me to, of course, sir. But I shan't find much time for play if I'm to learn my new trade." "Oh, you can hire good teachers," laughed his father. "Well, I'm sleepy. Good-night, Mr. "Good-night, Dad. I could use some sleep myself."
It doesn't matter. Why did he want to kill you?" "Never mind that, now," interrupted the physician. "We'll get that scratch bound up, and then, young man, you'll go to sleep." Pallid as a ghost, the itinerant held the little hand during the process of binding the wound. "Boyee" essayed to smile, at the end, and closed his eyes. "Now we can leave him," said the physician.
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