Dangerous Days

It was the morning after the pageant that Clayton, going down-town with

him in the car, voiced his expectation that the government would take

over their foreign contracts, and his feeling that, in that case, it

would be a mistake to profit by the nation's necessities.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean we should take only a small profit. A banker's profit."

Graham had been fairly stunned, and had sat quiet while Clayton

explained his attitude. There were times when big profits were

allowable. There was always the risk to invested capital to consider.

But he did not want to grow fat on the nation's misfortunes. Italy was

one thing. This was different.

"But--we are just getting on our feet!"

"Think it over!" said Clayton. "This is going to be a long war, and an

expensive one. We don't particularly want to profit by it, do we?"

Graham flushed. He felt rather small and cheap, but with that there was

a growing admiration of his father. Suddenly he saw that this man beside

him was a big man, one to be proud of. For already he knew the cost of

the decision. He sat still, turning this new angle of war over in his

mind.

"I'd like to see some of your directors when you put that up to them!"

Clayton nodded rather grimly. He did not anticipate a pleasant hour.

"How about mother?"

"I think we may take it for granted that she feels as we do."

Graham pondered that, too.

"What about the new place?"

"It's too soon to discuss that. We are obligated to do a certain amount.

Of course it would be wise to cut where we can."

Graham smiled.

"She'll raise the deuce of a row," was his comment.

It had never occurred to him before to take sides between his father and

his mother, but there was rising in him a new and ardent partisanship

of his father, a feeling that they were, in a way, men together. He had,

more than once, been tempted to go to him with the Anna Klein situation.

He would have, probably, but a fellow felt an awful fool going to

somebody and telling him that a girl was in love with him, and what the

dickens was he to do about it?

He wondered, too, if anybody would believe that his relationship with

Anna was straight, under the circumstances. For weeks now he had been

sending her money, out of a sheer sense of responsibility for her

beating and her illness. He took no credit for altruism. He knew quite

well the possibilities of the situation. He made no promises to himself.

But such attraction as Anna had had for him had been of her prettiness,

and their propinquity. Again she was girl, and that was all. And the

attraction was very faint now. He was only sorry for her.