his eyes still fixed upon the ceiling in a contemplation somewhat
plaintive, Sheridan was impelled to groan. "Oh, Lord!" he said.
"This is the way you always were. I don't believe you understood a
darn word I been sayin'! You don't LOOK as if you did. By George!
it's discouraging!"

"I don't understand about getting--about getting bigger," said Bibbs,
bringing his gaze down to look at his father placatively. "I don't
see just why--"

"WHAT?" Sheridan leaned forward, resting his hands upon the desk and
staring across it incredulously at his son.

"I don't understand--exactly--what you want it all bigger for?"

"Great God!" shouted Sheridan, and struck the desk a blow with his
clenched fist. "A son of mine asks me that! You go out and ask the
poorest day-laborer you can find! Ask him that question--"

"I did once," Bibbs interrupted; "when I was in the machine-shop.
I--"

"Wha'd he say?"

"He said, 'Oh, hell!'" answered Bibbs, mildly.

"Yes, I reckon he would!" Sheridan swung away from the desk. "I
reckon he certainly would! And I got plenty sympathy with him right
now, myself!"