The announcement of his engagement could be
postponed to a more suitable time.
'Clarence!' whispered a voice from the sofa.
'Yes, father?'
The silver-haired old man gasped for utterance.
'I've lost my little veto,' he said, brokenly, at length.
'Where did you see it last?' asked Clarence, ever practical.
'It's that fellow Rackstraw!' cried the old man, in feeble rage. 'That
bounder Rackstraw! He's the man behind it all. The robber!'
'Clarence!'
It was his mother who spoke. Her voice seemed to rip the air into a
million shreds and stamp on them. There are few things more terrible
than a Chicago voice raised in excitement or anguish.
'Mother?'
'Never mind your pop and his old veto. He didn't know he had one till
the paper said he'd lost it. You listen to me. Clarence, we are
ruined.'
Clarence looked at her inquiringly.
'Ruined much?' he asked.
'Bed-rock,' said his mother. 'If we have sixty thousand dollars a year
after this, it's all we shall have.'
A low howl escaped from the stricken old man on the sofa.
Clarence betrayed no emotion.
'Ah,' he said, calmly. 'How did it happen?'
'I've just had a cable from Chicago, from your grand-pop. He's been
trying to corner wheat. He always was an impulsive old gazook.'
'But surely,' said Clarence, a dim recollection of something he had
heard or read somewhere coming to him, 'isn't cornering wheat a rather
profitable process?'
'Sure,' said his mother.
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