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“Harbor Castle,” he recited, “has eighteen bedrooms, billiard-room, music-room, art gallery and swimming-pool.” He shook his head. “And no one to use ’em but us. We had a boy.” He stopped, and for an instant, as though asking pardon, laid his hand upon the knee of Mrs. Farrell. “But he was taken when he was four, and none came since. My wife has a niece,” he added, “but—-“

“But,” interrupted Mrs. Farrell, “she was too high and mighty for plain folks, and now there is no one. We always took an interest in you because your name was Farrell. We were always reading of you in the papers. We have all your books, and a picture of you in the billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are any relation–sometimes I tell ’em we ARE.”

As though challenging me to object, she paused.

“It’s quite possible,” I said hastily. And, in order to get rid of them, I added: “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Ireland and—-“

Farrell shook his head firmly. “You don’t need to write to Ireland,” he said, “for what we want.”

“What DO you want?” I asked.

“We want a SON,” said Farrell; “an adopted son. We want to adopt YOU!”

“You want to WHAT?” I asked.

To learn if Mrs. Farrell also was mad, I glanced toward her, but her expression was inscrutable. The face of the Irishman had grown purple.

“And why not?” he demanded. “You are a famous young man, all right, and educated. But there’s nothing about me I’m ashamed of! I’m worth five million dollars and I made every cent Of it myself–and I made it honest. You ask Dun or Bradstreet, ask—-“

I attempted to soothe him.

“THAT’S not it, sir, ” I explained. “It’s a most generous offer, a most flattering, complimentary offer. But you don’t know me. I don t know you. Choosing a son is a very—-“

“I’ve had you looked up,” announced Mrs. Farrell. “The Pinkertons give you a high rating. I hired ’em to trail you for six months.”

I wanted to ask WHICH six months, but decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I shook my head. Politely but firmly I delivered my ultimatum.

“It is quite impossible!” I said firmly.

Mrs. Farrell continued the debate. She talked in a businesslike manner and pronounced the arrangement one by which both sides would benefit. There were thousands of other Farrells, she pointed out, any one of whom they might have adopted. But they had selected me because in so choosing, they thought they were taking the least risk. They had decided she was pleased to say, that I would not disgrace them, and that as a “literary author ” I brought with me a certain social asset.

A clever, young businessman they did not want. Their business affairs they were quit able to manage themselves. But they would like as an adopted son one who had already added glory to the name of Farrell, which glory he was willing to share.

“We wouldn’t tie you down,” she urged “but we would expect you to live at Harbor Castle a part of your time, and to call us Ma and Pa. You would have your own rooms, and your own servant, and there is a boat-house on the harbor front, where you could write your novels.”

At this, knowing none wanted my novels, I may have winced, for, misreading my discontent, Farrell hastily interrupted.

“You won’t have to work at all,” he protested heartily. “My son can afford to live like a lord. You’ll get all the spending money you want, and if you’re fond of foreign parts, you can take the yacht wherever you please!”

“The farther the better,” exclaimed Mrs. Farrell with heat. “And when you get it there, I hope you’ll SINK it!”

“Maybe your friends would come and visit You,” suggested Farrell, I thought, a trifle wistfully. “There’s bathing, tennis, eight… bedrooms, billiard-room, art gallery—-“

“You told him that!” said Mrs. Farrell.