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Updated: May 9, 2025
Bean fixed a long look of horror on Mrs. Tinneray, who silently turned her eyes up to heaven! As the Fall of Rome churned its way up to the sunny wharf of Chadwick's Landing, the groups already on the excursion bristled with excitement. Children were prepared to meet indulgent grandparents, lovers their sweethearts, and married couples old school friends they had not seen for years.
That was all, but it was enough. Jack knew that most of his father's money was invested with the firm that had written the letter, and now they had been wiped out in a money panic. Jack had no idea how much of his father's fortune was affected, but it was evident from Mr. Chadwick's collapse that he had been dealt a heavy blow.
She turned her head slightly when her husband entered the room, and, without getting off the arm of Lord Chadwick's chair, said: 'Doesn't he look well in that suit of clothes, Reggie? The Major was a short man, shorter by nearly two inches than his wife or Lord Chadwick. His hair had once been red; it was now faded, and the tall forehead showed bald amid a slight gleaning.
Finally, however, the last-named lady leaned past Mrs. Bean and touched Mrs. Turtle's silken knee, volunteering, "Your sister Hetty likes the water, I know. You remember them days, Mis' Tuttle, when we all went bathin' together down to old Chadwick's Harbor, afore they built the new wharf?" Mrs. Tinneray continued reminiscently.
The conductor, who had not yet got what would have been his sea-legs if he had been captain of an Atlantic liner, lurched forward, and then went out on to the platform to greet a new fare, and his sentence was never finished. That day happened to be the day of Thomas Chadwick's afternoon off; at least, of what the tram company called an afternoon off.
Chadwick's hands reached up and clasped the hands that for the moment blinded him. "Frank!" he cried, and sprang to his feet. The next moment father and son were in each other's arms. Dr. Chadwick held his son off at arm's length, and looked at him. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he declared. "You look better than you did the last time I saw you, and you were looking fine then."
Now on a certain Tuesday afternoon in spring Tommy Chadwick's car stood waiting, opposite the Conservative Club, to depart to Moorthorne. And Tommy Chadwick stood in all his portliness on the platform. The driver, a mere nobody, was of course at the front of the car.
The next day confirmatory reports arrived of the wreck of Mr. Chadwick's fortunes. In his room, attended constantly by Dr. Mays, his friend as well as physician, the inventor raved of his losses. "We have got to think of some way of easing his mind," said Dr. Mays, who had placed his regular practice in the hands of another doctor so that he might be with Mr. Chadwick.
The flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak. Among Chadwick's songs is a volume of Breton melodies harmonized with extreme simplicity. Others are "Gay Little Dandelion," which is good enough of its everlasting flower-song sort; "In Bygone Days" and "Request," which, aside from one or two flecks of art, are trashy; and two childish namby-pambies, "Adelaide" and "The Mill."
The draper, if he neglected his opportunity, would be an idiot a mere idiot. So, when the boy came home for his holidays he found two momentous things decided; first, that he should forthwith enter Mr. Chadwick's office; secondly, that the little shop should be abandoned and a new one taken in a better neighbourhood. Now Harry Humplebee had in his soul a secret desire and a secret abhorrence.
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