"Sam won't founder. But he may get a bad strain. You'd better look out. He is his father's son." "I do not know, sir, to what you refer." "Oh, yes, you do," Dr. Lavendar assured him easily; "and you know that no man can experience unforgiving anger, and not be crippled. You didn't founder, Sam, but you gave yourself a mighty ugly wrench. Hey? Isn't that so?" The senior warden looked perfectly deaf; then he took up the tale again. "If he goes on in his folly he will only be unhappy, and deservedly so. She will have nothing to do with him. In stopping him, I shall only be keeping him from future unhappiness." "Samuel," said Dr. Lavendar, "I never begrudge unhappiness to the young." But Mr., Wright was too absorbed in his own troubles to get any comfort out of that. "By the way," said Dr. Lavendar, "speaking of Mrs. Richie--do you think she'd be a good person to take this little David Allison?" "I don't know why she shouldn't be, sir," Samuel said. "I have no fault to find with _her_. She pays her rent and goes to church. Yes; a very good person to take the boy off your hands." "The rent is important," Dr. Lavendar agreed nodding; "but going to church doesn't prove anything." "All good people go to church," the senior warden reproved him. "But all people who go to church are not good," Dr. Lavendar said dryly, "I am afraid she lets Sam talk poetry to her," Sam's father broke out. "Stuff! absolute stuff! His mother sometimes tells me of it. Why," he ended piteously, "half the time I can't understand what it's about; it's just bosh!" "What you don't understand generally _is_ bosh, isn't it, Sam?" said Dr. Lavendar thoughtfully. "I am a man of plain common sense, sir; I don't pretend to anything but common sense." "I know you don't, Samuel, I know you don't," Dr. Lavendar said sadly; and the banker, mollified, accepted the apology. "On top of everything else, he's been writing a drama. He told his mother so. Writing a drama, instead of writing up his ledgers!" "Of course, he ought not to neglect his work," Dr. Lavendar agreed; "but play-writing isn't one of the seven deadly sins." "It is distasteful to me!" Sam senior said hotly; "most distasteful. I told his mother to tell him so, but he goes on writing--so she says." He sighed, and got up to put on his coat. "Well; I must go home. I suppose he has been inflicting himself upon Mrs. Richie this evening. If he stays late, I shall feel it my duty to speak plainly to him." Dr. Lavendar gave him a hand with his coat. "Gently does it, Samuel, gently does it!"