don't! I suppose you figure it out that now I got a SON-IN-LAW, I
mightn't need a son! Yes, I got a son-in-law now--a spender!"

"Oh, put your hand back!" said Gurney, wearily.

There was a bronze inkstand upon the table. Sheridan put his right
hand in the sling, but with his left he swept the inkstand from the
table and half-way across the room--a comet with a destroying black
tail. Mrs. Sheridan shrieked and sprang toward it.

"Let it lay!" he shouted, fiercely. "Let it lay!" And, weeping,
she obeyed. "Yes, sir," he went on, in a voice the more ominous for
the sudden hush he put upon it. "I got a spender for a son-in-law!
It's wonderful where property goes, sometimes. There was ole man
Tracy--you remember him, Doc--J. R. Tracy, solid banker. He went
into the bank as messenger, seventeen years old; he was president
at forty-three, and he built that bank with his life for forty years
more. He was down there from nine in the morning until four in the
afternoon the day before he died--over eighty! Gilt edge, that bank?
It was diamond edge! He used to eat a bag o' peanuts and an apple
for lunch; but he wasn't stingy--he was just livin' in his business.
He didn't care for pie or automobiles--he had his bank. It was an
institution, and it come pretty near bein' the beatin' heart o' this
town in its time. Well, that ole man used to pass one o' these here
turned-up-nose and turned-up-pants cigarette boys on the streets.
Never spoke to him, Tracy didn't. Speak to him? God! he wouldn't 'a'
coughed on him! He wouldn't 'a' let him clean the cuspidors at the
bank! Why, if he'd 'a' just seen him standin' in FRONT the bank he'd
'a' had him run off the street. And yet all Tracy was doin' every
day of his life was workin' for that cigarette boy! Tracy thought it