Which Toby did, and actually surprised a tear on the parchment cheek of his father, which touch of nature making them both akin, had a marked effect on the soft heart of the young man, and he fell into the arms of his sire. Thus far the parable was excellently interpreted. But the fatted calf. Ah! it was truly an excellent beast, that same calf, for it consisted of several courses, and the wine was undeniable. Clendon _père_ looked after his cellar as well as his folios, and after a good dinner father and son clasped hands once more under the influence of '47 port, which made them both sentimental. "You will stay with me, Tobias, and comfort my declining years?" "Certainly, father; but you will let me go to London occasionally?" "Oh, yes, Tobias; you must attend to your business. By the way, what is your business?" "That of a scribbler." "Ah! Richard Savage and Grub Street. Never mind, my boy, I've got money enough for us both." "No, not Grub Street. Nous avons change tout cela, eh, father! I make about five hundred a year." "What!--what, at scribbling?" "Yes." "Dear me," remarked Clendon _père_, eyeing his port, "what a lot of money there must be in the world." "My dear father, literature has improved since the Caxton period." "But printing has not, Tobias. No, no! Nowadays they use flimsy paper, bad type----" "But the matter, father; the contents of a book." "I never read a modern book. Pish! You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I don't believe in your cheap literature." "It's a good thing for me, at any rate, father." "Of course. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good." "Well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year." "Good, good! Yes, folios make one narrow. You shall expand my mind, Tobias. You shall bring me into contact with the nineteenth century. But I won't read any books but your own." "I don't write books." "No? Well, I'm thankful for small mercies. How long are you going to stay with me?" "Till you grow tired of me." "Then, Tobias, you are settled here for the rest of your life." "My dear father. By the way, I want to ask a friend of mine down here." "Not a woman?" "No; I haven't got that far yet. A fellow called Archie Maxwell. He used to go to school with me, and we're great chums. "Tobias, no slang. You mean you are a David and Jonathan?" "I do. That's about the size of it." "Eheu, hinc illæ lachrymæ. I like not the nineteenth century talk. It grates on the ear." "I beg your pardon, father; but can I have Archie Maxwell down?" "Certainly. Is he also in Grub Street?" "Oh, no! He's an engineer." "On the railway?" "No; a civil engineer--builds bridges." "Well, well, let the young man come; but he'll find it dull here." "Oh no, he won't, because you see, father, there's a lady." "Eh!" "Miss Kaituna Pethram, whom he loves."