so cocksure of yourself!"
"You said he came over on a transport, sir!” The telegram was sent from New York——!"
“Well, there, there, there! Don't say any more about it. He hasn't come, has he? You were wrong, weren't you? The hack has come up from the station, hasn't it, and he hasn't come? And you knew the doctor said I mustn't be excited!”
“He might've walked, sir; they sometimes do, you know."
“What nonsense! Walked! The nephew of Calvin Treeves walk up from the station when he could just as well ride? He knew he could ride! I tell you, you are a fool!” The old man’s face was purple with rage.
“There's some one turned in at the drive just now, sir. He's carrying a suitcase, sir.”
“What bosh! As if my nephew would carry a suitcase! Walk and carry a suitcase up to this hotel with all those hens and cats down there on the veranda knitting and clacking their tongues. He would have more respect for me than to do a thing like that. If he didn't, I'm sorry I sent for him! I’ll teach him to disgrace —— !”
The trembling old claw-like hands gripped the arms of the chair, and the selfish old voice trembled dangerously. There were sparks of fire from the dim, disappointed old eyes, and the, puffy veins on the withered face swelled purple and congested.
“Just keep calm a minute, sir, there's some one at the door. You know the doctor said you mustn't get excited, Mr. Treeves –!"
“Keep calm! Keep calm!" muttered the angry old man, trying to lift himself to his feet, and then dropping back helplessly with a groan.
The man returned with a card.
“He has come, Mr. Treeves.”
“How could he? That fellow walking wasn't my nephew. He would have been in uniform. That man wore civilian clothes. He ought to have been in officer's uniform. It was outrageous ——! An insult to the name! My nephew a private! But he won enough honors to make a good showing even in private's uniform, and give those cats something to talk about at last!"
His eyes glittered with a gleam of triumph.
“Well, tell him to come up. Better late than never, I suppose——"
The old man settled back against his pillows and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, as if gathering strength for the interview. Then he sat up with a tense alertness and a feverish quiver of his lips that betokened his deep feeling, and looked toward the door as a tall, well-built young man, dressed in a business suit of brown, entered and looked about him.
The young man had crisp brown curly hair cut close, and pleasant brown eyes, but there was a look of aloofness about him as if he were holding any friendliness he might have in abeyance for the present. Even the attendant felt it, and if the truth were known perhaps honored him the more for it. It was a trait of the Treeveses, this independence, this being able to stand alone and demand respect. A look of admiration dawned in old Hespur’s face as he stood watching the young man advance into the room.
John Treeves walked over toward the withered little figure of a man in the chair and stood, as a soldier might stand, at attention, although there was that in his attitude that said he reserved the right to his own thoughts and would give inward respect only to whom respect was due.
“You have sent for me, Mr. Treeves?”
“Why don't you call me Uncle?” whimpered the old man irascibly.
“I understood that you did not wish to own me as a nephew. You disowned my father as a brother, for marrying my mother, and you refused to acknowledge me as your nephew some years ago. Why should I presume to call you Uncle?”
“I sent for you, isn't that enough? No need to have a nasty temper about it,” replied the old man testily.
“You have sent for me. Uncle Calvin."
The old man's face softened just a shade.
“There that sounds better," he gloated like one who has conquered as usual. “Now sit down and let me see what you're made of."
A swift flicker of anger went over the young man's face and left it hard and cold:
“Thank you. I prefer to stand until I know why you sent for me.”
The old man straightened up and looked at his nephew, half in admiration, half in fury:
“You prefer to stand, you young rascal!” he fairly snorted. “You do, do you? Well, I prefer that you sit! Do you hear! Hespur! Here! Make that young man sit down! make him sit down, I say!” he screamed, thrashing the air vigorously with a frail claw of a hand. “Is this the way that paragon of a mother taught you to behave to your elders, you young rascal? Hespur! Here!”
Hespur, the obedient, advanced coolly like a well-trained animal that was set to do the impossible, but was swept aside like a toy by the strong arm of the young giant, who wheeled and strode toward the door:
“That will be about all!” he said as he paused with the knob of the door in his hand. I never allow my mother to be spoken of in that tone. I will bid you good afternoon and good-bye, mister Treeves.”
The old man sat agap in wonder. Not in years had anyone dared to oppose him like this! Nay, even to reprove him. He was too angry and astonished for articulation. Old Hespur stood in line with him watching with admiration the retreat of the young visitor, looking down at his arm that had been gripped in the giant vise, as if an honor had been conferred upon him. This surely was a young gentleman to be proud of, a true chip of the old block!
Then while Calvin Treeves still stared and spluttered for words, the door opened, and the young man went out and down the hall.
The old man was stunned for a second, then turned to his faithful servitor:
“Hespur! Go! Bring him back!” he pleaded like a child, who has been punished and is suddenly repentant.
The young man pausing before the elevator door was suddenly confronted by the old servant, bowing before him with distress in his face.
“Oh, sir! He is sorry! He didn't mean it! Come back, sir, quick! The doctor said he must not be excited, sir. He might have a stroke. He's a mighty sick old man, is Mr. Treeves, and he don't rightly know hoar disagreeable he gets.”
“Did he say he was sorry?" asked the young man, looking at the servant keenly.
“No, sir, he didn't say he was sorry. But he meant it, sir. He wouldn't rightly know how to say he was sorry. He never made a practice of saying he was sorry, sir!"
“I should say not!" said the nephew with flashing eyes and quivering upper lip, the kind of quiver that denotes a hurt soul; but he followed the serving man back albeit with his head held high and a haughty, stem chin. He came into the room once more and stood at attention.
Again that gleam of triumph in the old eye:
“You young rapscallion!" breathed the old man with a chuckle. "You certainly are hot headed enough!"
"Sir, no one may speak so of my mother without having to account for it. If you called me here to insult her holy memory,
