Bibbs was on time. He knew it must be "to the minute" or his father
would consider it an outrage; and the big chronometer in Sheridan's
office marked four precisely when Bibbs walked in. Coincidentally
with his entrance five people who had been at work in the office,
under Sheridan's direction, walked out. They departed upon no visible
or audible suggestion, and with a promptness that seemed ominous to
the new-comer. As the massive door clicked softly behind the elderly
stenographer, the last of the procession, Bibbs had a feeling that
they all understood that he was a failure as a great man's son, a
disappointment, the "queer one" of the family, and that he had been
summoned to judgment--a well-founded impression, for that was exactly
what they understood.

"Sit down," said Sheridan.

It is frequently an advantage for deans, school-masters, and worried
fathers to place delinquents in the sitting-posture. Bibbs sat.

Sheridan, standing, gazed enigmatically upon his son for a period of
silence, then walked slowly to a window and stood looking out of it,
his big hands, loosely hooked together by the thumbs, behind his back.
They were soiled, as were all other hands down-town, except such as
might be still damp from a basin.

"Well, Bibbs," he said at last, not altering his attitude, "do you
know what I'm goin' to do with you?"

Bibbs, leaning back in his chair, fixed his eyes contemplatively upon
the ceiling. "I heard you tell Jim," he began, in his slow way. "You