Robert Morton was much more akin to the Galbraith stock, the financier argued. He had all the dog-like persistency, the fighter's love of the game, the courage that will not admit defeat. Although he would not have confessed it, Mr. Galbraith would have given half his fortune to have interchanged the personalities of the two young men. Could Roger have been blessed with Bob's attributes, the dream of his life would have been fulfilled. Money was a potent slave. In the great man's hands it had wrought a magician's marvels. But this miracle, alas, it was powerless to accomplish. Roger was his son, his only son, whom he adored with instinctive passion; for whom he coveted every good gift; and in whose future the hopes of his life were bound up. Long since he had abandoned expecting the impossible; he must take the boy as he was, rejoicing that Heaven had sent him as good a one. Yet notwithstanding this philosophy, Mr. Galbraith never saw the two young men together that the envy he stifled did not awaken, and the question rise to his lips: "Why could I not have had such a son?" The interrogation clamored now as he came up the walk to the doorway where Robert Morton was standing. "Well, my boy, I'm glad to see you," exclaimed he with heartiness. "You are looking fit as a racer." "And feeling so, Mr. Galbraith," smiled Bob. "You are looking well yourself." "Never was better in my life." As he stood still, sweeping his keen gaze over his surroundings, a telegraphic glance of greeting passed between the two classmates. "How are you, old man?" said Roger. "Bully, kipper. It's great to see you again," was the reply. That was all, but they did not need more to assure each other of their friendship. "You have a wonderful location here, Bob," observed Mr. Galbraith who had been studying the view. "I never saw anything finer. What a site for a hotel!" Robert Morton could not but smile at the characteristic comment of the man of finance. "You would have trouble rooting Mr. Spence out of this spot, I'm afraid," said he. "Mr. Spence?" "He is my host. My aunt, Miss Morton, is his housekeeper." Robert Morton had learned never to waste words when talking with Mr. Galbraith. "I see. I should be glad to meet your aunt and Mr. Spence." "I know they would like to meet you too, sir. They are just inside. Won't you come in?" Leading the way, Bob threw open the door into the little sitting room.