“Oh, all right! all right!” chuckled Caleb. “I was the same way. Used to tickle me to death at twenty to be called ‘Old Man.’ _Now_, I’d give five dollars to anyone who’d call me ‘My Boy.’ So you think I ought to treat you like a grown man, hey? All right!” He was enjoying the scene hugely. He liked the boy’s pluck. Fighter-like, he was minded to test it to the full. As a possible husband for Desirée, he did not give Hawarden a thought. As a momentary means of amusement to himself, he was willing to prolong the interview. “We’ll s’pose you’re a man, then,” he continued. “An’ you want to marry my ward. Your fam’ly’s as good as hers. Maybe better, as you folks count such things. So much for that. Now, what’s your income? There, don’t look like I’d made a face at you! The question’s in order. Maybe you think money don’t count in matrimony? Well, it does. Respectability ain’t on the Free List. Not by a long shot. A fam’ly costs three times as much to keep as a chorus girl. What’s your income? Speak up!” “I--I hardly know, exactly,” faltered Hawarden, “When I was in college, my father allowed me $1,500 a year. He still keeps it up. But as I’m living at home now, it costs me less to get on. Then, after I finish the law-school next year, I’ll be making a good salary myself very soon. With Miss Shevlin to work for--” “To put it plain,” interrupted Caleb, “You’re earnin’ nothin’ just now, with a golden outlook of earnin’ a little less in a year or two.” “I have my allowance,” protested Hawarden, “and--” “We’ll cut out the ‘allowonce’ part,” said Caleb. “That’s just what your father pays as part of his fine for bringin’ you into the world. He’s li’ble to get sore on you any time an’ stop playin’ the alloorin’ role of Human Meal Ticket. What’ll you do then?” “You don’t quite understand,” protested Hawarden. “In a year from now I shall be earning my own living and shall not be dependent on my father. There is good money in law and--” “There is!” assented Caleb. “I’ve put a lot of it there, myself, from time to time. But blamed few lawyers manage to get it out. The rest go to work on street cars or--” “I shall make my way,” averred the lad stoutly, “and even if I don’t succeed at the law, I always have my literary work to fall back on.” “Your what?” “My literary work. I was Yale correspondent for the _Star_ all the time I was at college. And more of my stories are being accepted all the time by papers and magazines. And,” seeking mightily to subdue the thrill of sublime pride in his voice and to speak in a matter-of-fact tone, as he played his trump card, “Last month I had a seven-page story in _Scribner’s_.” “Where?” asked Caleb, genuinely curious. “In _Scribner’s_” repeated Hawarden modestly. “Where’s that?” inquired Caleb. “It’s,--why _Scribner’s Magazine_,” explained the boy, in dire misery. “I got eighty dollars for it,” he added with a pitiful clutch at his vanishing self-respect.