Then his mind
reverted to his conversation the night before with Mr. Grayson and
with this change of thought his father's portrait--the one that
hung in his room--loomed up. He had the night before turned on the
lights--to their fullest--and had scanned the picture closely,
eager to find some trace of Peter in the counterfeit presentment
of the man he loved best, and whose memory was still almost a
religion, but except that both Peter and his father were bald, and
that both wore high, old-fashioned collars and neck-cloths, he had
been compelled to admit with a sigh that there was nothing about
the portrait on which to base the slightest claim to resemblance.
"Yet he's like my father, he is, he is," he kept repeating to
himself as the cab sped on. "I'll find out what it is when I know
him better. To-night when Mr. Grayson comes I'll study it out,"
and a joyous smile flashed across his features as he thought of
the treat in store for him.
When at last the boy reached his office, where, behind the
mahogany partition with its pigeon-hole cut through the glass
front he sat every day, he swung back the doors of the safe, took
out his books and papers and made ready for work.
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