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Updated: June 28, 2025
Rainer dipped his quill in the inkstand his uncle had pushed in his direction, and dashed a gallant signature across the document. Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and conjecturing that the young man was signing his will on the attainment of his majority, had placed himself behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to affix his name to the instrument.
Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew's smile in a glance of impartial benevolence. "Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won't think it a liberty " Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his solid head toward the door. "Of course Mr. Faxon's an American citizen?" Frank Rainer laughed. "That all right! ... Oh, no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack!
No one was speaking when he entered they were evidently awaiting his return with the mute impatience of hunger, and he put the seal in Rainer's reach, and stood watching while Mr. Grisben struck a match and held it to one of the candles flanking the inkstand.
"It's queer a healthy face but dying hands," the secretary mused: he somehow wished young Rainer had kept on his glove. The whistle of the express drew the young men to their feet, and the next moment two heavily-furred gentlemen had descended to the platform and were breasting the rigour of the night. Frank Rainer introduced them as Mr. Grisben and Mr.
"My dear boy! ... Peters, another bottle. ..." He turned to his nephew. "After such a sin of omission I don't presume to propose the toast myself ... but Frank knows. ... Go ahead, Grisben!" The boy shone on his uncle. "No, no, Uncle Jack! Mr. Grisben won't mind. Nobody but YOU to-day!" The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled Mr. Lavington's last, and Mr.
Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of tone. Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. "Oh, facts what are facts? Just the way a thing happens to look at a given minute...." "You haven't heard anything from town?" Mr. Grisben persisted. "Not a syllable. So you see.... Balch, a little more of that petite marmite. Mr. Faxon... between Frank and Mr.
A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer', gaiety. "Oh, come I say!... What would you do?" he stammered. "Pack up and jump on the first train." Mr. Grisben leaned forward and laid his hand kindly on the young man's arm. "Look here: my nephew Jim Grisben is out there ranching on a big scale. He'll take you in and be glad to have you.
"Wall Street can stand crashes better than it could then. It's got a robuster constitution." "Yes; but " "Speaking of constitutions," Mr. Grisben intervened: "Frank, are you taking care of yourself?" A flush rose to young Rainer's cheeks. "Why, of course! Isn't that what I'm here for?" "You're here about three days in the month, aren't you?
Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of the two, ended his greeting with a genial "and many many more of them, dear boy!" which suggested to Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary. But he could not press the enquiry, for the seat allotted him was at the coachman's side, while Frank Rainer joined his uncle's guests inside the sleigh.
Rainer, having signed, was about to push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch; but the latter, again raising his hand, said in his sad imprisoned voice: "The seal ?" "Oh, does there have to be a seal?" Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, saw a faint frown between his impassive eyes. "Really, Frank!" He seemed, Faxon thought, slightly irritated by his nephew's frivolity.
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