of sheep-covered law books; in the center stood a big, square table; beyond that, facing the window, was an old-fashioned desk at which sat a man engaged in writing. His back was toward Phil; but from the tousled snow white locks and broad, spreading ears the boy knew he stood in the presence of his father’s old friend and confidant, Judge Ferguson. His title of “Judge” was derived from his having been for some years a Justice of the Peace, and it was, therefore, more complimentary than official.
As Phil closed the door and stood hesitating, a voice said: “Sit down.” The tone was quiet and evenly modulated, but it carried the effect of a command.
Phil sat down. There was a little room connected with the big office, in which sat a tow-headed clerk copying paragraphs from a law book. This boy glanced up and, seeing who his master’s visitor was, rose and carefully closed the door between them. Mr. Ferguson continued writing. He had no idea who had called upon him, for he did not turn around until he had leisurely completed his task, when a deliberate whirl of his revolving office chair brought him face to face with the boy.
“Well, Phil?” said he, shooting from beneath the bushy overhanging eyebrows a keen glance of inquiry.
“I – I wanted to have a little talk with you, sir,” returned Phil, a bit embarrassed. “Are you very busy?”
“No. Fire ahead, my lad.”
“It’s about our – our family affairs,” continued the visitor, haltingly.
“What about them, Phil?”
“Why, I know nothing as to how we stand, sir. No one has told me anything and I’ve been too thoughtless to inquire. But, I ought to know, Mr. Ferguson – oughtn’t I?”
The judge nodded.
“You ought, Phil. I’ve been going to speak of it, myself, but waited to see if you wouldn’t come here of your own accord. You, or Phœbe. In fact, I rather expected Phœbe.”
“Why, sir?”
“You’re not a very practical youth, Phil. They say you’re a student, and are trying for honors at the high school graduation next month. Also, you’re the pitcher of the baseball team, and stroke oar for the river crew. These things occupy all your time, it seems, as well they may.”
Phil flushed red. There was an implied reproach in the old man’s words.
“Now, Phœbe is different,” continued the lawyer, leaning back in his chair with his elbows on the arms and joining the tips of his fingers together – a characteristic attitude. “Phœbe has a shrewd little head, full of worldly common sense and practical, if womanly, ideas. I’d a notion Phœbe would come to me to make these necessary inquiries.”
Phil slowly rose. His face was now white with anger, yet his voice scarcely trembled, as he said:
“Then, I’ll let her come to you. Good morning, sir.”
Mr. Ferguson nodded again.
“Yes,” he remarked, without altering his position, “my judgment of you was correct. You’ll be a man some day, Phil, and a good one; but, just now, you’re merely a stubborn, unformed boy.”
Phil paused with his hand on the knob of the door. To leave the office at this juncture would be humiliating and unsatisfactory. His nature was usually calm and repressed, and under excitement he had a way of growing more quiet and thinking more clearly, which is exactly the opposite of the usual formula with boys of his age. His strong resentment at the frank speech of the old lawyer did not abate, but he began to reason that a quarrel would be foolish, and if he intended to satisfy the doubts that worried him he must ignore the slight cast upon his character.
He laid down his hat and resumed his chair.
“After all, sir,” he said, “I’m the eldest boy and the head of the family. It is my duty to find out how we stand in the world, and what is necessary to be done to protect and care for my brother and sisters.”
“True enough, my lad,” rejoined the lawyer, in a hearty tone. “I’ll help you all I can, Phil, for your father’s sake.”
“You administered the estate,” said the boy, “and you are still my guardian, I believe.”
“Yes. Your father left no will, and the court appointed me administrator and guardian. I’ve done the best I could to untangle the snarl Wallace Daring left his business in, and the affairs of the estate are now closed and the administrator discharged.”
“Was – was there anything left?” inquired Phil, anxiously.
“Your father was a wonderful man, Phil,” resumed the lawyer, with calm deliberation, “and no doubt he made a lot of money in his day. But he had one fault as a financier – he was too conscientious. I knew Wallace Daring intimately, from the time he came to this town twenty years ago, and he never was guilty of a crooked or dishonest act.”
Phil’s face brightened at this praise of his father and he straightened up and returned the lawyer’s look with interest.
“Then there was nothing disgraceful in his failure, sir?”
“No hint of disgrace,” was the positive reply. “Daring made a fortune from his sugar factory, and made it honestly. But three years ago all the beet sugar industries of the country pooled their interests – formed a trust, in other words – and invited your father to join them. He refused, believing such a trust unjust and morally unlawful. They threatened him, but still he held out, claiming this to be a free country wherein every man has the right to conduct his business as he pleases. I told him he was a fool; but I liked his sterling honesty.
“The opposition determined to ruin him, and finally succeeded. Mind you, Phil, I don’t say Wallace Daring wouldn’t have won the fight had he lived, for he was in the right and had a host of friends to back him up; but his accidental death left his affairs in chaos. I had hard work, as administrator, to make the assets meet the indebtedness. By selling the sugar factory to the trust at a big figure and disposing of your old home quite advantageously, I managed to clear up the estate and get my discharge from the courts. But the surplus, I confess, was practically nothing.”
Phil’s heart sank. He thought earnestly over this statement for a time.
“We – we’re pretty poor, then, I take it, sir?”
“Pretty poor, Phil. And it’s hard to be poor, after having enjoyed plenty.”
“I can’t see that there’s any college career ahead of me, Mr. Ferguson,” said the boy, trying to keep back the tears that rushed unbidden to his eyes.
“Nor I, Phil. College is a fine thing for a young fellow, but under some circumstances work is better.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, then?” demanded the boy, indignantly.
“There was no use in discouraging you, or interrupting your work at high school. I consider it is best for you to graduate there, especially as that is liable to end your scholastic education. The time is so near – less than three months – that to continue your studies would make little difference in deciding your future, and the diploma will be valuable to you.”
No one but Phil will ever know what a terrible disappointment he now faced. For years his ambition, fostered by his father, had been to attend college. All his boyish dreams had centered around making
