book. It sounded good, but he didn't see how it solved the problem of finding a place in which to establish and rear a young and promising industry.
As he opened the door of his home, a murmur of voices ceased in the dining room. He knew, instinctively, that his father and mother had been talking about him. When he entered the dining room his father was reading a newspaper—a stern man who did not invite conversation. Bert lingered a while, uncomfortable and constrained, and went off to bed. After a few minutes his mother followed him upstairs.
"Bert, are you sure this thing you have planned to do is a wise move?"
"Pop's been talking to you," he challenged.
"Well, it does seem a little improbable."
"Pop always claimed that Sam had a good business head. Didn't he? If he had a good head yesterday he ought to have a good head to-day."
"But this is different. Walking straight in the path that somebody else has cleared is one thing; clearing your own, solving all your own troubles, is another. What your father really meant was that Sam showed great promise."
"Funny he never said it that way, though, until now."
Mrs. Quinby sighed. "There's no use arguing with you, Bert. You always did give more heed to what somebody outside told you." She was si-
