flung himself down at the
table to write a letter that was to put new life into a weary old man
who was fighting against odds in the far-away Southland.

The lone soldier was to take heart of grace, remembering that he had a
son; remembering also that the son was now a man grown, stout of arm,
steady of head, and otherwise fighting-fit. If the storm should come,
the watchword must be to hold on all, keeping steerage-way on the
Chiawassee Consolidated craft at all hazards. The June examinations were
not far off, and these disposed of, the man-son would be ready to lay
hold. Meanwhile, let Caleb Gordon, in his capacity of principal minor
stock-holder, insist on a full and exact statement of the company's
affairs, and--here the new manhood asserted itself boldly--let that
statement, or a copy of it, come to Boston by the first mail.

To this letter there was a grateful reply in which Tom read with a smile
his father's half-bewildered attempt to get over to the new point of
view. It began, "Dear Buddy," and ended, "Your affectionate pappy," but
there was man-to-man matter between the salutation and the signature.
The inquiry into the affairs of Chiawassee Consolidated had revealed
little or nothing more than the general manager already knew. The
president had turned the inquiring stock-holder over to Dyckman, the
bookkeeper, with instructions to give Mr. Gordon the fullest possible
information, and:

"Dyckman slid out of it, smooth and easy-like," Caleb's letter went on.
"He allowed he was _mighty_ busy, right about then. Wouldn't I just make
myself at home and examine the books for myself? I reckon that was about
what Farley wanted him to do. I'm no book expert, and I couldn't make
head or tail out of Dyckman's spider tracks. Looks to me like all the
books are good for is to keep people from finding where the company is
at. What little I found out, young Norman told me. He says we're in a
hole, and the first wagon-load of dirt that comes along will bury us out
of sight."

Tom, driven now with the closing work of the college year, yet took time
to write another heartening letter to the hard-pressed old soldier. It
had been his good fortune to win the Clarkson prize for crucible tests,
and to have gained thereby a speaking acquaintance with the
multimillionaire iron king who had founded it. Mr. Clarkson did not
believe that the financial storm would grow to panic size. As for
himself, Tom thought the hazard was less in