“Thank you, Mrs. Allison,” Phil said; “that will be all to-day. I’m too tired.” She knew he never tired. “I’ll sign them after lunch and mail them myself.” Then he turned to Junior. “Now you and I are going out to have a grand old time together, eh, what, old top?” He slapped Junior on the back. Then Mrs. Allison left the room, and father and son were alone together. It frightened them. Already the old clamping habit of reserve was trying to have its way with them, though each was determined to prevent it. Both of them laughed and said, “Well, well!” hoping to bluff it off. “First, let’s have a look at you,” said Phil; and he playfully dragged Junior toward the window. The boy’s laughter suddenly died, and Phil now had a disquieting sense of making an ass of himself in his son’s eyes. But that was not it. Junior dreaded the strong light of the window. With his changing voice had arrived a few not very conspicuous pimples; such little ones, but they distressed him enormously. “Well, feel as if you could eat something?” “Yes, thank you,” said Junior. He feared it sounded cold and formal. He couldn’t help it. They went to a club on the top of a high office building. Junior’s name was written in the guest book, which awed him agreeably. A large, luxurious luncheon was outlined by Phil, beginning with a cantaloupe and ending with ice cream--a double portion for Junior. This was first submitted to Junior for approval. He had forgotten his facial blemishes. “Golly! You bet I approve,” said Junior laughing. That was more like it. Phil summoned a waiter and then sent for the head waiter. A great man, his father, not afraid even of head waiters. And he ordered with the air of one who knew. No wonder the waiters seemed honoured to serve him. Only, how was one to “get this over” to the boys without seeming to boast? “A little fish, sir, after the melon?” “Yes, if you’ll bring some not on the menu.” That was puzzling. Phil explained. Fish which had arrived at the club after the menu had been printed was sure to be fresh. “Oh, I see,” said Junior. This would make a hit with the boys. There was no doubt about it, his handsome father was the most distinguished personage in the whole large roomful of important-looking people. Several of them gathered around to welcome Phil. Junior was presented. Their greetings to the son showed their warm affection, their high regard for the father. Junior wallowed in filial pride. If only Smithy could see him now! What a father! A citizen of the world who did big things and wore perfect-fitting clothes, cut by his Bond Street tailor in London--the finishing touch of greatness to a boy of Junior’s age--and he recalled what one of the engineers had said to Aunt Mary, “Even in camp he shaves every day.” “Well, tell me how everything is going at school,” said the father, who did not dream that he was being hero-worshipped.