"That last check is worthy of particular attention," he said dryly. "The
others are remarkable only for their size and continuity of numbers; but
that last one should be framed and hung upon the wall at the foot of your
bed, though you would not see it often. I consider it a diploma of your
qualification as Master Jackanapes." (Dad's vocabulary, when he is angry,
contains some rather strengthy words of the old-fashioned type.)

I looked at the check and began to see light. I _had_ been a bit rollicky
that time. It wasn't drawn for very much, that check; I've lost more on
one jack-pot, many a time, and thought nothing of it. And, though the
events leading up to it were a bit rapid and undignified, perhaps, I
couldn't see anything to get excited over, as I could see dad plainly was.

"For a young man twenty-five years old and with brains
enough--supposedly--to keep out of the feeble-minded class, it strikes me
you indulge in some damned poor pastimes," went on dad disagreeably.
"Cracking champagne-bottles in front of the Cliff House--on a Sunday at
that--may be diverting to the bystanders, but it can hardly be called
dignified, and I fail to see how it is going to fit a man for any useful
business."

Business? Lord! dad never had mentioned a useful business to me before.
I felt my eyelids fly up; this was springing birthday surprises with a
vengeance.

"Driving an automobile on forbidden roads, being arrested and fined--on
Sunday, at that--"

"Now, look here, dad," I cut in, getting a bit hot under the collar
myself, "by all the laws of nature, there must have been a time when _you_