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Updated: June 29, 2025
Inwardly Bobby frowned, for, so far, he had found no points about his caller to arouse his personal enthusiasm; and yet it suddenly occurred to him that here was doubtless business, and that it ought to have attention. His father, under similar circumstances, would find out what the man was after. He cast a hesitating glance at his friend. "Don't mind me, Bobby," said Starlett briskly.
He had brought reluctant Jack Starlett back with him, and together they walked into the John Burnit Store. "New office fitted up yet, Johnson?" asked Bobby pleasantly. "Yes, sir," replied Johnson sourly. "Just a moment, Mr. Burnit," and from an index cabinet back of him he procured an oblong gray envelope which he handed to Bobby. It was inscribed: To My Son, Upon the Fitting-Out of New Offices
Ordinarily he was most prim and pretty of manner, but to-night he was on vinously familiar terms with all the world, and, crowding himself upon Bobby's quiet whist crowd, slapped Bobby joyously on the shoulder. "Generous lad, Bobby!" he thickly informed Allstyne and Winthrop and Starlett.
With a half-embarrassed smile, Bobby regarded that letter thoughtfully and carried it into the luxurious new office. He opened it and read it, and, still with that queer smile, passed it over to Starlett.
"Oh, yes; he is the John Burnit Store's chief competitor; concern backs up against ours, fronting on Market Street. Show him in, Johnson." Jack Starlett, who had dropped in to loaf a bit, rose to go. "Sit down," insisted Bobby. "I'm conducting this thing all open and aboveboard. You know, I think I shall like business."
Trimmer was a genius; the Traders' Club a fascinating introduction to a new life; Starlett and Allstyne a joyous relief to him after the sordid cares of business. In a word, Agnes was with him. "Do you think your father would accept this proposition?" she asked him after he was all through. "I think he would at my age," decided Bobby promptly.
He forgot him still more when, dismissing his chauffeur, he seated Agnes in the front of the car beside him, with Starlett and Allstyne and Aunt Constance in the tonneau, and went whirling through the streets and up the avenue. It was but a brief trip, not over a half-hour, and they had scarcely a chance to exchange a word; but just to be up front there alone with her meant a whole lot to Bobby.
It was a matter for wrangling, obviously enough, but there was no difference to split. It was a case of deciding either yes or no. For the balance of the time until Jack Starlett called for him at twelve-thirty, he puzzled earnestly and soberly over the thing, and next morning the problem still weighed upon him when he turned in at the office.
Bobby gave them the most perfunctory of greetings, and, sitting back by himself, sullenly moped. He grumbled to himself that he had a headache; the play was a humdrum affair; Trimmer was a bore; the proposed consolidation had suddenly lost its prismatic coloring; the Traders' Club was crude; Starlett and Allstyne were utterly frivolous.
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