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Page 32
"I know I don't. Give me a chance. That's all. I'll prove it."
The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into
which the sun had sunk.
"I'm short a teamster, and I'll give you the chance to make good. Go and
get supper with the hands."
Ross Shanklin's voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort.
"All right. I'll make good. Where can I get a drink of water and wash
up?"
THE PRODIGAL FATHER
I
Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business
man. He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man's suit, his shoes were
comfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collars
and cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and an
up-to-date, business-man's derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear.
Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, as
the leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundred
thousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part.
But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance at
the store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling to
impair for half an hour the staff's working efficiency. He nodded
pleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for the
first trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacent
glance at the sign that ran across the front of the building--CHILDS'
CASH STORE. The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black and
gold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, and
everything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scale
of prices ten per cent. higher than any other grocery in town). But what
Josiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers and
entered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthies
perpetrated on each other's necks. They clung together for support.
"Did you catch the kicks, Bill?" one moaned.
"Did you pipe the head-piece?" Bill moaned back.
"Now if he was goin' to a masquerade ball...."
"Or attendin' a reunion of the Rough Riders...."
"Or goin' huntin' bear...."
"Or swearin' off his taxes...."
"Instead of goin' all the way to the effete East--Monkton says he's
going clear to Boston...."
The two drivers held each other apart at arm's length, and fell limply
together again.
For Josiah Childs' outfit was all their actions connotated. His hat was
a light fawn, stiff-rimmed John B. Stetson, circled by a band of Mexican
stamped leather. Over a blue flannel shirt, set off by a drooping
Windsor tie, was a rough-and-ready coat of large-ribbed corduroy. Pants
of the same material were thrust into high-laced shoes of the sort worn
by surveyors, explorers, and linemen.
A clerk at a near counter almost petrified at sight of his employer's
bizarre rig. Monkton, recently elevated to the managership, gasped,
swallowed, and maintained his imperturbable attentiveness. The lady
bookkeeper, glancing down from her glass eyrie on the inside balcony,
took one look and buried her giggles in the day book. Josiah Childs saw
most of all this, but he did not mind. He was starting on his vacation,
and his head and heart were buzzing with plans and anticipations of the
most adventurous vacation he had taken in ten years. Under his eyelids
burned visions of East Falls, Connecticut, and of all the home scenes he
had been born to and brought up in. Oakland, he was thoroughly aware,
was more modern than East Falls, and the excitement caused by his garb
was only to be expected. Undisturbed by the sensation he knew he was
creating among his employ�s, he moved about, accompanied by his manager,
making last suggestions, giving final instructions, and radiating fond,
farewell glances at all the loved details of the business he had built
out of nothing.
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