“Well, I’m glad he’s not that sort of Abbott,” said Fessenden indifferently. “Thank God I can show my mettle and start from the ground up.” The words left no trail in Fessenden’s mind; the parting which followed affected him deeply, and he was too excited at the prospect of seeing his father again to recall what had impressed him as a mere chance remark. XVII As Fessenden left the train on Monday morning and walked down the long crowded platform to the gates, he was nervous and happy and sentimental, but full of vanity. Not as the prodigal son was he returning to his father after these long years of disunion. Had not a telegram from the president of his university acquainted Mr. Abbott with his son’s brilliant climax? Was he not about to relieve his parent of all further worries and responsibilities, to say naught of shedding lustre upon the family name? He was sure that his father, if he had chosen obscurity for his own portion, must still be in a position to give him advice and immediate suggestion, of more value than gold. He had arrayed himself in a new suit of summer gray, and with considerable satisfaction, for he had spasms of personal vanity, although only death could separate him permanently from the reprobates of his wardrobe. His long body was still very slight, but it was muscular and lithe. When his eyes were not hard or dreamy with concentrated thought they were ready to laugh their response into any friendly eyes they chanced to meet. Although as a rule he would have scorned to admit that he knew whether he was good-looking or not, he was in so gay a mood this fine summer morning that he frankly accepted admiring glances for what they were worth, and was glad to add such attractions as his ancestors had given him to the sum he was about to present to one doting parent. Not that Fessenden was a handsome boy; his present attractiveness lay for the most part in his youthful armory of glancing and glinting expressions; but his hair was brown and bright, his eyes were blue and dark, and his features cut by race, not by chance. In his most disreputable alliances with old clothes he never lacked distinction, and to-day, in spite of the eager restlessness of his muscles--he was seldom in repose--he was very naturally mistaken by the calculating feminine mind for a fledgling of the privileged class. His progress in the dense crowd was slow, and his stride was naturally long. It was not in him to submit to impeded progress, and he jumped back into the train and made his way rapidly to the front car. As he sprang to the ground near the gates he saw his father’s pale eager face, and he stiffened suddenly lest he utter a mountain whoop or imperil his dignity in the feminine manner. When he had forced his way beyond the barriers, he nearly crushed Mr. Abbott’s firm bony hand, then pulled it through his arm and--started for Forty-second Street. “Come on! Come on!” he said through his teeth, “we can’t say anything here.”