But plainly he did not.
And he went away a little crest-fallen.
Later some half dozen letters for his uncle having been put in the key-box, Ratterer called Clyde’s attention to them.
“If you want to run in on him again, here’s your chance.
Take those up to him.
He’s in his room, I think.”
And Clyde, after some hesitation, had finally taken the letters and gone to his uncle’s suite once more.
His uncle was writing at the time and merely called:
“Come!”
Then Clyde, entering and smiling rather enigmatically, observed:
“Here’s some mail for you, Mr. Griffiths.”
“Thank you very much, my son,” replied his uncle and proceeded to finger his vest pocket for change. but Clyde, seizing this opportunity, exclaimed:
“Oh, no, I don’t want anything for that.”
And then before his uncle could say anything more, although he proceeded to hold out some silver to him, he added: “I believe I’m related to you, Mr. Griffiths.
You’re Mr. Samuel Griffiths of the Griffiths Collar Company of Lycurgus, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I have a little something to do with it, I believe.
Who are you?” returned his uncle, looking at him sharply.
“My name’s Clyde Griffiths.
My father, Asa Griffiths, is your brother, I believe.”
At the mention of this particular brother, who, to the knowledge of all the members of this family, was distinctly not a success materially, the face of Samuel Griffiths clouded the least trifle.
For the mention of Asa brought rather unpleasingly before him the stocky and decidedly not well-groomed figure of his younger brother, whom he had not seen in so many years. His most recent distinct picture of him was as a young man of about Clyde’s age about his father’s house near Bertwick, Vermont.
But how different!
Clyde’s father was then short, fat and poorly knit mentally as well as physically — oleaginous and a bit mushy, as it were. His chin was not firm, his eyes a pale watery blue, and his hair frizzled.
Whereas this son of his was neat, alert, good- looking and seemingly well-mannered and intelligent, as most bell- hops were inclined to be as he noted.
And he liked him.
However, Samuel Griffiths, who along with his elder brother Allen had inherited the bulk of his father’s moderate property, and this because of Joseph Griffiths’ prejudice against his youngest son, had always felt that perhaps an injustice had been done Asa.
For Asa, not having proved very practical or intelligent, his father had first attempted to drive and then later ignore him, and finally had turned him out at about Clyde’s age, and had afterward left the bulk of his property, some thirty thousand dollars, to these two elder brothers, share and share alike — willing Asa but a petty thousand.
It was this thought in connection with this younger brother that now caused him to stare at Clyde rather curiously.
For Clyde, as he could see, was in no way like the younger brother who had been harried from his father’s home so many years before.
Rather he was more like his own son, Gilbert, whom, as he now saw he resembled.
Also in spite of all of Clyde’s fears he was obviously impressed by the fact that he should have any kind of place in this interesting club.
For to Samuel Griffiths, who was more than less confined to the limited activities and environment of Lycurgus, the character and standing of this particular club was to be respected.
And those young men who served the guests of such an institution as this, were, in the main, possessed of efficient and unobtrusive manners.
Therefore to see Clyde standing before him in his neat gray and black uniform and with the air of one whose social manners at least were excellent, caused him to think favorably of him.
“You don’t tell me!” he exclaimed interestedly.
“So you’re Asa’s son.
I do declare!
Well, now, this is a surprise.
You see I haven’t seen or heard from your father in at least — well, say, twenty-five or six years, anyhow.
The last time I did hear from him he was living in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I think, or here.
He isn’t here now, I presume.”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Clyde, who was glad to be able to say this.
“The family live in Denver.
I’m here all alone.”
“Your father and mother are living, I presume.”
“Yes, sir. They’re both alive.”
“Still connected with religious work, is he — your father?”
“Well, yes, sir,” answered Clyde, a little dubiously, for he was still convinced that the form of religious work his father essayed was of all forms the poorest and most inconsequential socially.
“Only the church he has now,” he went on, “has a lodging house connected with it. About forty rooms, I believe.
He and my mother run that and the mission too.”