s one of our directors, you know, had wished his
only son onto our bond room staff.

He's kind of a rough old boy, Z. K. Tyler, one of the bottom-rungers who
likes to tell how he made his start as fry cook on an owl lunch wagon.
Course, now he has his Broad Street offices and is one of the big noises
on the Curb market. Operatin' in motor stocks is his specialty, and when
you hear of two or three concerns being merged and the minority holders
howlin' about being gypped, or any little deal like that, you can make a
safe bet that somewhere in the background is old Z. K. jugglin' the
wires and rakin' in the loose shekels. How he gets away with that stuff
without makin' the rock pile is by me, but he seems to do it reg'lar.

And wouldn't you guess he'd be just the one to have finicky ideas as to
how his son and heir should conduct himself. Sure thing! I heard him
sketchin' some of 'em out to Old Hickory.

"The trouble with most young fellows," says he, "is that they're brought
up too soft. Kick 'em out and let 'em rustle for themselves. That's what
I had to do. Made a man of me. Now take Hartley. He's twenty-five and
has had it easy all his life--city and country home, college, cars to
drive, servants to wait on him, and all that. What's it done for him?
Why, he has no more idea of how to make a dollar for himself than a
chicken has of stirring up an omelette.

"Of course, I could take him in with me and show him the ropes, but he
couldn't learn anything worth while that way. He'd simply be a copy-cat.
He'd develop no originality. Besides, I'd rather see him in some other
line. You understand, Ellins? Something a little more substantial. Got
to find it for himself, though. He's got to make good on his own hook
before I'll help him any more. So out he goes.

"Ought to have a year or so to pick up the elements of business, though.
So let's find a place for him here in the Corrugated. No snap job. I
want him to earn every dollar he gets, and to live off what he earns. Do
him good. Maybe it'll knock some of the fool notions out of his head.
Oh, he's got 'em. Say, you couldn't guess what fool idea he came back
from college with. Thought he wanted to be a painter. Uh-huh! An artist!
Asked me to set him up in a studio. All because him and a room mate had
been daubin' some brushes with oil paints at a summer school they went
to during a couple of vacations. Seems a long-haired instructor had been
telling Hartley what great tale