Ross warmed under the interest in the tone. "I was standing in the bow of the boat, just over the rail from the horse, and I saw what the trouble was. There was no one else who seemed to know what to do." He spoke modestly. "The horse would have died before we reached the landing; and so," simply, "I ran my arm down his throat, and got the apple." "You did!" ejaculated Grant. He leaned further forward. "And what prevented the horse from chewing up your arm while you were after the apple?" "A bootblack's brush," Ross explained. "A boy was rubbing up a man's shoes near me; and I grabbed his brushes, and got busy. One of the deck hands helped me prop the horse's mouth open. I threw off my coat"--here Ross surveyed himself ruefully, and left the subject of the horse; "and I got pretty dirty all over. Couldn't help it. There wasn't any time to think of keeping clean. But after we got over on the New York side the owner of the horse took me to a stable, and helped me to clean up; but--I don't think it's much of a success." Mr. Grant leaned back in his swivel chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and fitted his finger-tips together. His imagination, country-trained in his youth, was supplying some of the details which his son had omitted. He nodded his iron-gray head, and narrowed his eyes, a trick common to all the Grants when intent on any subject. "Quick work," he remarked after a pause. His eyes were taking the measure of his son. "It had to be quick work," he added as if to convince himself that Ross could act swiftly. "Where did you get breakfast?" was his next question. "I haven't had any," Ross replied. "I tried to get here by nine o'clock." A low whistle escaped the father. He arose, and reached for his hat, which lay on the top of a safe behind him. "We'll go out to lunch now." Ross glanced doubtfully from his father's well-groomed person to his own dirty coat. "Perhaps, father, you'd like me to go out alone so long as----" "Nonsense!" interrupted Grant brusquely. As they left the room, he took his boy's arm. There was little resemblance between the two. Ross had his uncle's head with its high brow and well-shaped chin, lean cheeks, and prominent ears. He was taller than his father, but wholly lacked his father's energetic manner and erect carriage. "You graduated in June from Wyoming Seminary," the father stated as they entered a large Broadway restaurant and sat down near the door. "Yes, sir." "No honors?" The boy's eyes fell. "No, sir. I stood tenth in a class of thirty-four." Evasion of the truth was not one of Ross's strong points. "And," stated his father, "it took you five years to do a four years' course." Ross looked his father squarely in the eyes, and lifted his chin a little. The father noticed for the first time that the boy's chin could indicate aggression. "I flunked on mathematics. But I made them up the next summer, and went on."