of the school paper, suggested that perhaps Cleland Junior was destined to write the Great American Novel.
Grayson said pleasantly:
"It was the great American ass who first made inquiries concerning the Great American Novel."
"Oh, what a knock!" shouted Oswald Grismer, delighted.
But young Belter joined in the roars of laughter, undisturbed, saying very coolly:
"Do you mean, sir, that the Great American Novel will never be written, or that it has already been written several times, or that there isn't any such thing?"
"I mean all three, Jack," explained Grayson, smiling. "Let me see that caricature you have been so busy over."
"It's – it's you, sir."
"What of it?" retorted the young master. "Do you think I can't laugh at myself?"
He took the paper so reluctantly tendered:
"Jack, you are a terror! You young rascal, you've made me look like a wax-faced clothing dummy!"
"Tribute to your faultless apparel, sir, and equally faultless features – "
A shriek of laughter from the boys who had crowded around to see; Grayson himself laughing unfeignedly and long; then the babel of eager, boyish voices again, loud, emphatic, merciless in discussion of the theme of the moment.
Into the swaying car and down the aisle came a negro in spotless white, repeating invitingly:
"First call for luncheon, gentlemen! Luncheon served in the dining car forward!"
His agreeable voice was drowned in the cheering of three dozen famished boys, stampeding.
Cleland Junior came last with the master.
"I hope you'll have a happy holiday, Jim," said Grayson, with quiet cordiality.
"I'm crazy to see father," said the boy. "I'm sure I'll have a good time."
At the vestibule he stepped aside, but the master bade him precede him.
And as the fair, slender boy passed out into the forward car, the breeze ruffling his blond hair, and his brown eyes still smiling with the anticipation of home coming, he passed Fate, Chance, and Destiny, whispering together in the corner of the platform. But the boy could not see them; could not know that they were discussing him.
CHAPTER I
An average New York house on a side street in winter is a dark affair; daylight comes reluctantly and late into the city; the south side of a street catches the first winter sun rays when there are any; the north side remains shadowy and chilly.
Cleland Senior's old-fashioned house stood on the north side of 80th Street; and on the last morning of Cleland Junior's Christmas vacation, while the first bars of sunshine fell across the brown stone façades on the opposite side of the street, the Clelands' breakfast room still remained dim, bathed in the silvery gray dusk of morning.
Father and son had finished breakfast, but Cleland Senior, whose other names were John and William, had not yet lighted the cigar which he held between thumb and forefinger and contemplated in portentous silence. Nor had he opened the morning paper to read paragraphs of interest to Cleland Junior, comment upon them, and encourage discussion, as was his wont when his son happened to be home from school.
The house was one of those twenty-foot brown stone houses – architecturally featureless – which was all there was to New York architecture fifty years ago.
But John William Cleland's dead wife had managed to make a gem of the interior, and the breakfast room on the second floor front, once his wife's bedroom, was charming with its lovely early American furniture and silver, and its mellow, old-time prints in colour.
Cleland Junior continued to look rather soberly at the familiar pictures, now, as he sat in silence opposite his father, his heart of a boy oppressed by the approaching parting.
"So you think you'll make writing a profession, Jim?" repeated John Cleland, not removing his eyes from the cigar he was turning over and over.
"Yes, father."
"All right. Then a general education is the thing, and Harvard the place – unless you prefer another university."
"The fellows are going to Harvard – most of them," said the boy.
"A boy usually desires to go where his school friends go… It's all right, Jim."
Cleland Junior's fresh, smooth face of a school boy had been slowly growing more and more solemn. Sometimes he looked at the prints on the wall; sometimes he glanced across the table at his father, who still sat absently turning over and over the unlighted cigar between his fingers. The approaching separation was weighing on them both. That, and the empty third chair by the bay window, inclined them to caution in speech, lest memory strike them suddenly, deep and unawares, and their voices betray their men's hearts to each other – which is not an inclination between men.
Cleland Senior glanced involuntarily from the empty chair to the table, where, as always, a third place had been laid by Meachem, and, as always, a fresh flower lay beside the service plate.
No matter what the occasion, under all circumstances and invariably Meachem laid a fresh blossom of some sort beside the place which nobody used.
Cleland Senior gazed at the frail cluster of frisia in silence.
Through the second floor hallway landing, in the library beyond, the boy could see his suitcase, and, lying against it, his hockey stick. Cleland Senior's preoccupied glance also, at intervals, reverted to these two significant objects. Presently he got up and walked out into the little library, followed in silence by Cleland Junior.
There was a very tall clock in that room, which had been made by one of the Willards many years before the elder Cleland's birth; but it ticked now as aggressively and bumptiously as though it were brand new.
The father wandered about for a while, perhaps with the vague idea of finding a match for his cigar; the son's clear gaze followed his father's restless movements until the clock struck the half hour.
"Father?"
"Yes, dear – yes, old chap?" – with forced carelessness which deceived neither.
"It's half past nine."
"All right, Jim – any time you're ready."
"I hate to go back and leave you all alone here!" broke out the boy impulsively.
It was a moment of painful tension.
Cleland Senior did not reply; and the boy, conscious of the emotion which his voice had betrayed, and suddenly shy about it, turned his head and gazed out into the back yard.
Father and son still wore mourning; the black garments made the boy's hair and skin seem fairer than they really were – as fair as his dead mother's.
When Cleland Senior concluded that he was able to speak in a perfectly casual and steady voice, he said:
"Have you had a pretty good holiday, Jim?"
"Fine, father!"
