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“Ugh! how black you are!” It was the old Emma McChesney that spoke. “You young devil, you’re actually growing a mustache! There’s something hard in your left-hand vest pocket. If it’s your fountain pen you’d better rescue it, because I’m going to hug you again.”

But Jock McChesney was not smiling. He glanced around the stuffy little hotel room. It looked stuffier and drearier than ever in contrast with his radiant youth, his glowing freshness, his outdoor tan, his immaculate attire. He looked at the astonished Miss Riordon. At his gaze that lady muttered something, and fled, sample-case banging at her knees. At the look in his eyes his mother hastened, woman-wise, to reassure him.

“It wasn’t so bad, Jock. Now that you’re here, it’s all right. Jock, I didn’t realize just what you meant to me until you didn’t come. I didn’t realize–“

Jock sat down at the edge of the bed, and slid one arm under his mother’s head. There was a grim line about his mouth.

“And I’ve been fishing,” he said. “I’ve been sprawling under a tree in front of a darned fool stream and wondering whether to fry ’em for lunch now, or to put my hat over my eyes and fall asleep.”

His mother reached up and patted his shoulder. But the line around Jock’s jaw did not soften. He turned his head to gaze down at his mother.

“Two of those telegrams, and one letter, were from T. A. Buck, Junior,” he said. “He met me at Detroit. I never thought I’d stand from a total stranger what I stood from that man.”

“Why, what do you mean?” Alarm, dismay, astonishment were in her eyes.

“He said things. And he meant ’em. He showed me, in a perfectly well- bred, cleancut, and most convincing way just what a miserable, selfish, low-down, worthless young hound I am.”

“He–dared!–“

“You bet he dared. And then some. And I hadn’t an argument to come back with. I don’t know just where he got all his information from, but it was straight.”

He got up, strode to the window, and came back to the bed. Both hands thrust deep in his pockets, he announced his life plans, thus:

“I’m eighteen years old. And I look twenty-three, and act twenty-five –when I’m with twenty-five-year-olds. I’ve been as much help and comfort to you as a pet alligator. You’ve always said that I was to go to college, and I’ve sort of trained myself to believe I was. Well, I’m not. I want to get into business, with a capital B. And I want to jump in now. This minute. I’ve started out to be a first-class slob, with you keeping me in pocket money, and clothes, and the Lord knows what all. Why, I–“

“Jock McChesney,” said that young man’s bewildered mother, “just what did T. A. Buck, Junior, say to you anyway?”

“Plenty. Enough to make me see things. I used to think that I wanted to get into one of the professions. Professions! You talk about the romance of a civil engineer’s life! Why, to be a successful business man these days you’ve got to be a buccaneer, and a diplomat, and a detective, and a clairvoyant, and an expert mathematician, and a wizard. Business–just plain everyday business–is the gamiest, chanciest, most thrilling line there is to-day, and I’m for it. Let the other guy hang out his shingle and wait for ’em. I’m going out and get mine.”

“Any particular line, or just planning to corner the business market generally?” came a cool, not too amused voice from the bed.

“Advertising,” replied Jock crisply. “Magazine advertising, to start with. I met a fellow up in the woods–named O’Rourke. He was a star football man at Yale. He’s bucking the advertising line now for the Mastodon Magazine. He’s crazy about it, and says it’s the greatest game ever. I want to get into it now–not four years from now.”

He stopped abruptly. Emma McChesney regarded him, eyes glowing. Then she gave a happy little laugh, reached for her kimono at the foot of the bed, and prepared to kick off the bedclothes.

“Just run into the hall a second, son,” she announced. “I’m going to get up.”

“Up! No, you’re not!” shouted Jock, making a rush at her. Then, in the exuberance of his splendid young strength, he picked her up, swathed snugly in a roll of sheeting and light blanket, carried her to the big chair by the window, and seated himself, with his surprised and laughing mother in his arms.