Then his conscience held up before him the picture of his father as he had seen him just a few minutes before, his face white with pain, his lips set in a strong endurance, his voice weak from shock; and again he heard the trembling sentences from those strong lips that had never acknowledged failure before:
“There’s a note to be met, son, the first of next week. The man is needing money badly and will foreclose if it isn’t paid. I thought I had it all fixed up, but I got his letter last night, and I reckon that’s what I was thinking about when I crossed the street in front of that car. You see, the worst of it is he has a purchaser ready to take over the store and give him cash at once on foreclosure. I suspect it’s that evil-eyed Rawley that’s been hanging around asking questions the last three weeks, and there’s nothing for it but to raise the money somehow— There are those city lots we’ve been saving for Mother—They’ll have to go, unless you can get Judge Whiteley to fix up another mortgage somehow to tide us over—”
The voice had failed with a new wave of pain, and Alan’s mother had signaled him in alarm.
“That’s all right, Dad,” Alan’s strong young voice had rung out with assurance. “I’ll fix that up okay. You don’t need to worry a minute! And of course I can run the store. You needn’t think anything is going wrong just because you are taking a few days’ rest.”
That was how he had cheered his father, one short hour before, and walked down the street with his shoulders back and a proud feeling of responsibility upon him to take over the business and make it succeed, pull it out of a hole as it were. How his heart had responded to his father’s appeal.
And here he was considering dropping the whole thing, shedding the whole responsibility like a garment that could be discarded at will, and running off to play at digging up gold vases in some dead king’s tomb! Calling it the chance of a lifetime and crying out for an opportunity to fulfill his dreams and ambitions, while his father lay in pain and discouragement and saw his own life struggles and ambitions end in utter failure, too late to mend.
Well, he couldn’t do that, of course. He couldn’t lead his own life at the expense of all Dad had done, not now, just as things were nearing a fulfillment of his dreams. And in a sense Dad was doing it all for his sake and Mother’s. Who was he to presume to live his own life at the expense of his parents’? And why should his life be any more important in the universe, and in the eyes of God, than his father’s life and fortunes were?
He was sitting up now, with the paperweight in one hand and the letter in the other, staring at the four walls of the hardware store that had always seemed so important and so friendly to him. These questions were being shouted at him by a bright chisel that caught the light of the sun through the window, by a keg of gleaming wire nails that stood behind the counter within sight at his right hand, by a bundle of ax handles that bunched together over in the corner next to a great burlap bag of grass seed. All these inanimate creatures suddenly seemed to come alive and accuse him. Even a box of bright little seed packets left over from the spring seemed to reproach him. And then he seemed suddenly to have to defend himself to them all; he, the son of the house, who was now in command and expected to bring order out of the confusion and trouble. What made any of them think he was going to desert, his glance seemed to say, as his upper lip stiffened and his chin lifted, just the slightest, perceptible bit?
Alan laid down the paperweight and grasping his father’s pencil began to write on the back of Professor Hodge’s envelope.
Deeply grateful for your thought of me. Would like above all things to go, but impossible. Dad run over by automobile this morning. Fractured leg and other injuries. May be some time in recovering. Meantime, business responsibility on me. Great regrets and many thanks. Suggest Bob Lincoln. Here’s wishing,
Alan.
He counted the words carefully, and then reached out his hand for the telephone, but instead of calling Western Union as he had intended, he hesitated, with his fingers on the receiver, looked about thoughtfully, firmly, as though the matter was settled of course, but stuffed the scribbled envelope down in his pocket and called his home.
“How’s Dad, Mother? The doctor been there? What does he say? What? Ohhh–h! He does? Did you say he thinks it’s a difficult fracture? He said Dad might be a long time in bed? What’s the word? Complications? Oh! Worry? Why no, of course not! There’s nothing whatever to worry about. Tell Dad I’m at the helm and the ship is sailing fine. I’ll get all this mess straightened out in great shape, don’t you be afraid. Just tell him so! Tell him— Tell him I’m having—the time of my life! Why—tell him—I’m having”—he caught his breath as if a pain had shot through him and ended in a bright voice—”Tell him I’m having the chance of a lifetime. See? And don’t you worry, little Mother! Dad’ll pull through beautifully. This is just his chance to rest. He’s worked hard for years. It’s my turn to take the helm!”
He hung up the receiver sharply and shut his lips in a fine, firm line, his eyes taking on a look he wore when he had to break the enemy’s luck on the football field, or win in a race, or climb a ladder to rescue someone in a village fire.
Then with a defiant glance around at the inanimate objects that had accused him, he seized the telephone again and called for Western Union, firmly giving his message word for word in a clear, crisp voice, feeling in his heart that he had cut his own throat but was glad he had. Then he set to work in a mature, businesslike way to open the morning mail. This sickly feeling at his stomach was not to be noticed any more than if he had got knocked out playing baseball. He had this job to do and he was going to do it. And surely he was no worse off than before he got that letter from Professor Hodge. He ought to be glad the professor thought him worthy to go on such an expedition. It maybe wasn’t the only chance in the world, even if good old Hodge had called it “the chance of a lifetime.” Well, if it was, this store was the chance of a lifetime, too. He might never have another opportunity to help Dad, and begin to repay all he had done for him. Good old Dad!
Something misty got into Alan’s eyes as he opened the next envelope, and he cleared his throat and brushed his hand across his forehead. Then suddenly he forgot Egypt and Hodge, and the expedition and the honor, and his loss and everything. For here in this letter was a challenge greater than any buried cities could give. It was even worse than Dad had hinted. The man who held the mortgage had come out in the open with sneers and threats, couched in language that was so sure of winning that it added insult to injury. What! Let that man insult his father? Not if he knew himself! If he couldn’t do anything else, he would thrash him. But he knew, good and well, he was going to do something else. He’d get that money somewhere and put Dad on the top, if he had to sell his own skin to do it. Alan’s lips shut, thin and hard, and his eyes took on their steely look. The desert faded, and honors held less significance. Here was another matter that called for all his nerve and powers. Other fellows could go to Egypt and do whatever was necessary to be done to unearth the secrets of the ages. But he, Alan, was the only one who could put his dad right with the world again.
All day he worked frantically, not taking time to go home for lunch, holding long telephone conversations, and writing letters. Interviewing his father’s lawyer and getting in touch with the president of the bank, making an appointment with a real estate agent in the city for the next day, writing letters to two or three powerful friends of his father’s whom he could not reach over the wires, sending telegrams.
It was wonderful, the thrill that came to him as he realized his own responsibility and the necessity of good judgment. If he only had someone to consult. Someone closer than just bank presidents. Of course, there was Keith Washburn—and Sherrill. Sherrill had amazing good sense for a girl. But of course he could not tell either of them, good friends though they were, about his father’s business. He must weather it alone. If he only could ask Dad a question or two. But his mother’s various messages, reporting the state of the beloved invalid, made it very plain that Dad ought not to be bothered with a thing for many a day yet.
Alan went home late to dinner that night and tried to wear a