Tom carried on a nominal fire-insurance business, but as a
matter of fact the tiny two-roomed frame structure that bore his
painted sign was nothing more or less than a loafing place for him
and his rheumatic friends, and a place in which the owner could
spend the heat of the day in a position of comfort to his stiff
leg--that is to say, asleep in a high-backed office chair, his
feet propped upon his desk. It was here that Tom could usually be
found, and when one of those hateful statements arrived from the
East he merely roused himself, put on his wide gray hat, limped
around to the bank, and pledged more of his oil royalties or
signed another mortgage. What insurance policies he wrote were
brought to him by his old pals; the money derived there from he
sent on to "Bob" with love and an admonition to be a good girl and
study hard and hurry home, because he was dying to see her. This
office, by the way, no longer suited Tom; it was becoming too
noisy and he would have sold it and sought another farther out had
it not been mortgaged for more than it was worth. So, too, was the
house where he lived amid the dirt and disorder of all bachelor
establishments.

Now Old Tom would have resented an accusation of indolence; the
bare implication of such a charge would have aroused his instant
indignation, and Tom Parker indignant was a man to shun. As a
matter of fact, he believed himself sadly overworked, and was
forever complaining about it.

The time came, however, when he was forced to shed his habit of
slothfulness as completely as a snake sheds its skin, and that was
during the week before "Bob's" arrival. Then, indeed, he swept and
he dusted, he mopped and he polished, he rubbed and he scrubbed,