"How old are you? My gosh, I can't believe my eyes." "I was twenty-four last birthday. You--" "If ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, Harry. You're the living image of George Conkling,--and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me." "Well, you and Mother look a lot alike, Uncle Charlie. She's thinner than you are but--" "Well, I should hope so," exploded Charlie. "Take a chair, Harry,--and tell us all about yourself. Wait a minute. Sam, shake hands with my nephew, Harry Conkling,--Mr. Slutterback, Mr. Conkling. Harry lives up in Laporte. His mother--" "Guess again, Uncle Charlie. No more Laporte for me. I've been living in Chicago ever since I got married. Working for--" "Married? You married? A kid like you? Well, I'll--be--darned!" "Sure. And I'm not Harry, Uncle Charlie. I'm Wilbur. Harry's two years older than I am. He's married and got a kid three years old. Lives in Gary." "You don't mean to say you're little Wilbur? Little freckle-faced Wilbur with the pipe-stem legs?" Mr. Webster's nephew took a chair near the stove, unbuttoned his overcoat, and held his hands to the fire. He was a tall, rather awkward young man, with large ears, a turned-up nose and a prominent "Adam's Apple." "I'm working for one of the biggest oil companies in the world. We've got six hundred thousand acres of the finest oil-producing territory in the United States, and we control most of the big concessions in Honduras, Ecuador, Peru, Colombia and--thirty million dollar concern, that's all it is. Oh, you needn't look worried. I'm not going to try to sell you any stock, Uncle Charlie. That is, not unless you've got fifty thousand to invest. I'll tell you what I'm here for. My company wants to interest Miss Crown in--" "Hold on a minute, Wilbur," interrupted Charlie firmly. "You might just as well hop on a train and go back to Chicago. If you're expecting me to help you unload a lot of bum oil stock on Miss Alix Crown you're barking up the wrong tree,--I don't give a cuss if you are my own sister's son. Miss Crown is my--" The young man held up his hand, and favoured his uncle with a tolerant smile. "I'm not asking your help, old chap. I've got a letter to her from Mr. Addison Blythe, one of our biggest stockholders. All I'm asking you to do is to put me up at your house for a day or two while I lay the whole matter before Miss Crown." "I haven't got any house," said Charlie, rather helplessly. "Wait a second! Let me think. How long do you expect to be here, Wilbur?" "I wouldn't be here more than half an hour if I could get Miss Crown to say she'd take--"