"
Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment. Then, looking at the calm face of
Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied:
"My son, such language is not respectful to your father. You know, as
God knows, that I have been too indulgent with you."
The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache--which protruded from
each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish--and gazed
impudently in his father's face. Then he turned about, and bestowed
another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.
"That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him. Mr.
Wilkeson--my son."
Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who
accepted it reluctantly.
"I have seen you before, I believe," said he. "Across the way, eh?"
"I dare say," was the reply. "I sometimes sit at the window, reading."
Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.
"Since you have no secrets from this gentleman," said the son, "allow me
to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars
this morning?"
The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of
Marcus Wilkeson's face, and said:
"No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance.
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