Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 16

"Put him in the iron trade. 'Prentice him to me. There's something in him. Did you say you didn't know who his father was?" He shot one of his quick glances at Aymer.

The tortoise-sh.e.l.l paper-knife snapped in two. Aymer fitted the ends together neatly.

"No, I didn't," he answered very deliberately. "I told you he was my adopted son. I adopted him in order to have something to do."

"Oh, yes. Of course, of course." A slow smile spread over his big face. "Think of Aymer Aston of all men in the world playing at being a family man!"

He leant back in his chair and laughed out his great hearty laugh whose boyish ring, coupled with the laugher's easy careless manners, had snared so many fish into the financial net.

"They'd like to make a family man of me again--do their dear little best--but I'm not such a fool as they think me. Men with brains and ambitions don't want a wife. You miss less than you think, old chap,"

he went on with the colossal tactlessness habitual to him when his own interests were not at stake; "a wife plays the devil with one's business. I _know_." He nodded gloomily, the smile lost under a heavy frown.

Aymer put down very carefully the broken toy he had been playing with.

Peter's elephantine tread was so great that it had almost overstepped its victim. At all events Aymer gave no outward sign that he felt it except in his deepened colour and a faint straightening of the lips.

"What on earth do you do with yourself?" went on Peter thoughtfully; "the care of a kid like that doesn't absorb all your brains, I know."

"What would you recommend me to do?" asked Aymer quietly.

"With your head for figures and your leisure you should take to the Market. Have a machine and tapes fitted up in reach, and, by Jove! in a quiet spot like this, out of the way of other men's panics and nonsense, you could rule the world."

"The Market, I think you said."

"Same thing. Think of it, Aymer," he went on eagerly and genuinely interested in his proposition, whether spontaneous or not. He began walking up and down the room, working out his idea with that grasp of detail that had made him the millionaire he was.

"You could have the instruments and a private wire fixed up along the wall there, and your sofa by them. A clerk over there: it would be a sort of companion. You've plenty of capital to start with, and wouldn't have to lose your head at the first wrong deal. Of course you'd want someone the other end, a figurehead and mouthpiece, and someone to show you the lines, start you off; I'd be pleased to do it.

We could make a partnership concern of it, if you liked."

There was a quick sidelong glint in his eyes towards Aymer as he came to a stand near the sofa.

"What particular results would you expect?" inquired Aymer, knowing the only plan to keep the enthusiast at bay was to humour him.

"Why, man, you might be the greatest power in the world--you--the unseen, unknown, mysterious Brain--you would have time--you would escape the crazy influences that ruin half the men 'on 'Change'--and you've got the head for it. Calculation, nerve, everything. It would be just the thing for you. You'd forget all about not being able to walk in a week. I wonder why none of us have thought of it before."

"I'm getting used to it after twelve years," said Aymer, with shut teeth; "the objection to your scheme is that I do not happen to want money."

"Power, power, man," cried the other impatiently. "Money is just metal, its value lies in the grip it gives you over other men, and if you don't even care for that, there's the joy of chancing it. And you were a born gambler, Aymer, you can't deny that," he laughed heartily, but also again came the quick sidelong glint of his eyes. "Think of it, old fellow," he said carelessly, dropping his enthusiastic tone, "it would be a good deal better for you than doing nothing. It's such wicked waste."

For the first time Aymer winced.

"I'll think of it, and let you know if it's likely to be entertained.

I have the boy, you know; that gives me something to do."

"Poof! Let him bring himself up if you want to make a successful man of him. The more he educates himself, the better he'll get on. If you do it, you'll make him soft. _I_ know! Public School: University: Examinations, and 200 a year if he's lucky. That's your education!

All very well if you are born with a golden spoon in your mouth and can afford to be a fool. If you can't, better learn to rough-and-tumble it in the world. Education doesn't make successful men."

"You were not exactly uneducated, Peter," said Aymer drily.

Peter grinned.

"Ah, but I was a genius. I couldn't help it. It would have been the same had I been born in the gutter. No, I believe in the rough-and-tumble school to make hard-headed men."

"Well, for all you know, Christopher may be a genius, or be born with a golden spoon in his mouth."

The other looked up sharply.

"Nevil has a boy of his own, hasn't he?"

"Don't be a fool if you can help it, Peter. Other people have golden spoons besides the gilded Aston family."

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "It's no business of mine, of course, but the boy looks sharp. Pity to spoil him. Ha, Ha. I don't spoil mine."

He got up yawning and sauntered over to the fireplace and so did not see Aymer's rigid face go white and then red.

"I've got a boy--I think it's a boy--somewhere. Daresay you've forgotten. You weren't very sociable, poor old chap, when it happened.

About a year after your accident. He's about somewhere or other. Oh, I back my own theories! I don't suppose he's a genius, so the rough-and-tumble school for _him_."

"You know the school?"

"I can put my hand on him when I want to--that's not yet. The world can educate him till I'm ready to step in."

"If he'll have you."

Peter chuckled. "He won't be a fool--even if he's not a genius. Well, you think of my proposition, I'll go halves."

"How you have disappointed me, Peter. I thought you called from a disinterested desire to see me after all these years."

"Twelve years, isn't it? Well, you look better than you did then. I didn't think you would come through--didn't think you meant to. I'm sorry to miss Cousin Charles. He doesn't approve of me, but he's too polite to say so, even in a letter. How does he wear?"

"Well, on the whole. He works too hard."

The other spread out his hands.

"Works. And to what end? I'm glad to have seen you again. It's like old times, if you weren't on that beastly sofa, poor old chap."

"Perhaps you will call again when father is in," said Aymer steadily, with a mute wonder if a square inch of him was left unbruised.

"To tell the truth, I'm rarely in London. I work from Birmingham and New York, and calling is an expensive amus.e.m.e.nt to a busy man."

"Produces nothing?"

"Yes, a good deal of pleasure. It's worth it occasionally."

He stood over his cousin, looking down at him with quite genuine concern and liking in his eyes. His size, his aggressiveness, his blundering disregard of decency towards trouble, everything about him was on such a gigantic scale that one could not weigh him by any accepted standard. Aymer knew it, and notwithstanding Peter's unique powers of hurting him to the soul, he made no attempt to scale him, but met him on his own ground and ignored the torture.

"What has it cost you exactly, this visit?"

Peter considered quite gravely.