"That is only for a short time. The other would be for life."

"Not if I work up."

"Perhaps not; but there is no upper cla.s.s in a shop. But you said something about some drawings. Have you made some?"

"Yes."

"What are they?"

"These." And Allyn offered a half-dozen sheets of paper to his father.

Dr. McAlister glanced at them; then he put the reins into Allyn's hand.

"Here," he said; "you can drive. I want to look at these."

For some moments, there was a silence, while the doctor turned over the papers and Allyn's heart thumped until it seemed to him as if it could be heard distinctly. Then deliberately the doctor took off his gla.s.ses, shut them into their case and put the case into his pocket.

"Allyn," he said slowly; "I don't know much about such things; but I rather think that you have found your work. Some of these drawings are well done. Where did you get your machines?"

"I made them up."

"Oh." The doctor's tone was more dry than he realized; but he was unwilling, for the boy's own good, to show the pride he felt in his son.

"Suppose we talk this over, then, and see what plans we would better make. I did want you to be a doctor, Allyn; it would have made me very happy, but I think it isn't best for you. It doesn't seem to be just in your line, and I don't believe in forcing you into the wrong profession.

Even if an engineer's life meant hard work and disagreeable people and things around you, would you like to try it?"

"Yes."

"You would be happy in it?"

"Yes."

"You think you would stick to it through thick and thin?"

"Yes."

There was no gush, no enthusiasm; yet something in the quiet affirmative carried conviction to the father's mind.

"My boy," he said, as he rested his hand on Allyn's knee for a moment; "you are my youngest child, and very dear to me, dearer because for years your life has had to make up for the one that ended as yours began. It has been my constant hope to make you into a broad and happy man, and a good one. The rest doesn't count for much in the long run. If you really are sure that you care for machines, then let it be machines; only make up your mind to put your very best self into them, whether you oil up old ones or invent new ones. It doesn't make much difference what the work is; it makes a great deal of difference how you do it. Now listen to me, for I am going to make a bargain with you."

He paused and looked down into the brown eyes, and they looked back at him unfalteringly.

"If I give up my pet dream for you--you will never know how often I have dreamed it, Allyn--and let you throw over the idea of being a doctor, I shall expect you to keep on for two more years in your school and to take a good stand there. A mechanic should be as well-balanced mentally as a doctor. I want you to know some cla.s.sics, some history. Then, after that, if you still feel the same way about this, you may fit for any of the good technological schools you may choose, and I will do all I can to help you carry out your plans for your work. Is it a bargain?"

Allyn's hand met his father's for a moment, and he nodded briefly. That was all; but his father, as he watched him, was content without further demonstration.

"Then we'll call it all settled," he said briskly, as he took the reins once more. "I'll speak to the others about it, if you want. Sometimes discussions of such things are a trial. Next time, though,--Has this been worrying you, Allyn?"

"A little. I was afraid you wouldn't like it."

"I'm sorry. Next time, come to me in the first of it, and we'll talk it over together. That's what we fathers are for; and all we want for our sons is to see them strong and honest and content, determined to get the very best out of life as they go along. The only question is, where the best lies, and that we must each one of us decide for himself. That's enough moral for one afternoon," he added, laughing.

"N--no," Allyn answered meditatively; "I hate morals, as a general thing; but I don't seem to mind this. It's too sensible."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mac was at his evening devotions.

"And not squeal at Aunt Phebe, A-ah-nen!" he concluded in a gusty _sforzando._ Then he reached up and took his mother's face between his two pink palms. "I hit Aunt Phebe, to-day, mamma. Vat was very naughty; but I 'scused her, so it don't make any matter."

The fact was that Mac and his Aunt Phebe were not on intimate terms.

Never fond of children and none too fond of being disturbed in the pursuit of her varying hobbies, Phebe had scant patience with the vagaries of her small nephew. His ingratiating ways annoyed her; his shrill babble distracted her; her sense of order revolted at the omnipresent pails of sand which marked his pathway. Mac was revelling, that summer, in the possession of unlimited supplies of sand, and, not content with having it on the beach, he surrept.i.tiously lugged it up to Valhalla and constructed little amateur beaches wherever he could escape from Phebe's searching eyes.

Phebe protested loudly over the beaches. They were in the way; they rendered it unsafe to cross the floors, since they had a trick of appearing in new and unsuspected localities. Moreover, they afforded a source of constant interest to Melchisedek, who appeared to be secreting an anatomical collection beneath them, and spent long hours on guard above his latest addition to his h.o.a.rd. It offended Phebe to be growled at, just at the moment when her foot struck a heap of sand and bones which should have had no place in a well-ordered home; it offended her still more to listen to Mac's shrill unbraidings, when he found her ruthlessly sweeping the whole deposit out of doors. Hence Mac's blow.

Hence his forgiveness.

"I wish you were my brother, and I would see if this couldn't be stopped," Phebe had said, in the fulness of her wrath.

Mac surveyed her blandly.

"But I don't want you for a brovver. You're nofing but a girl, and if I had a little brovver, I'd ravver have a he-brovver," he returned dispa.s.sionately.

"All the same, I'd make you mind me," she said vengefully, as she gave the broom a final flirt.

"But you doesn't own me, Aunt Babe; every one else doesn't own me, just myse'f."

What remote memory of past Sunday stories had a.s.serted itself, the next day, it would be impossible to tell; but Mac suddenly projected himself into the long-ago, and out from the long-ago he addressed Phebe.

"You are Pharaoh, you know, and you kills babies."

"Don't be silly, Mac." Phebe was writing a letter and was in no mood for historical conversation.

Sitting on the floor at her feet, Mac clasped his shabby brownie to his breast.

"Yes, you are Pharaoh, you know; naughty old Pharaoh! But you wouldn't kill vis little baby; would you, Pharaoh?"

"I'd like to, if it would clean him up a little," Phebe returned, for she had an antipathy to the brownie which usually took its meals in company with Mac.

"Do peoples be clean, all ve time, in heaven?"

"Of course."

"Ven I don't want to go vere, Pharaoh."

"Mac, you must stop calling me Pharaoh. Aunt Phebe is my name."