"And you never want to listen to me. You read all the time."

"No, I do not--I really read very little, I have so many things to attend to. What did you say you wanted?"

"I want some money. I haven't had a cent this week."

"Then you must ask your father. I haven't anything to give you," and again Mrs. Bangs turned to her book.

"Can't you give me a dollar?"

Again there was no answer.

"I say, can't you give me a dollar?"

"I cannot. Now go away and be quiet until supper time."

"Then give me fifty cents."

"I haven't a penny. Ask your father."

"Oh, you're a mean thing!" growled the wayward son, and stalked out of the sitting room, slamming the door after him.

"What a boy!" sighed the lady of the house. "He never considers my comfort--and after all I have done for him!" And then she turned once more to her precious novel.

It wanted half an hour to supper time and Bob, not caring to do anything else, took himself back to his room. Like his mother, he, too, loved to read. Stowed away in a trunk, he had a score or more of cheap paper-covered novels, of daring adventures among the Indians, and of alluring detective tales, books on which he had squandered many a dime.

One was called "Bowery Bob, the Boy Detective of the Docks; or, Winning a Cool Million," and he wanted to finish this, to see how Bob got the million dollars. The absurdity of the stories was never noticed by him, and he thought them the finest tales ever penned.

He was deep in a chapter where the hero in rags was holding three men with pistols at bay when he heard a noise below and saw his father leaping from the family carriage. Mr. Bangs' face wore a look of great satisfaction, showing plainly that his day's business had agreed with him.

"How do you do, dad?" he said, running down to greet his parent.

"First-rate, Bob," said Mr. Bangs, with a smile. "How have things gone with you to-day?"

"Not very well."

"What's the matter?"

"You forgot to give me my spending money this week."

"I thought I gave it to you Sat.u.r.day."

"That was for last week."

"I think you are mistaken, Bob. However, it doesn't matter much," went on Mr. Bangs, as he entered the house.

"Phew! He's in a fine humor to-night," thought Bob. "I'll have to strike him for more than a dollar."

"Where's your mother?" went on the gentleman.

"In the sitting room, reading. But I say, dad, what about that money?"

"Oh, do you want it right away?"

"I'd like to have it after supper."

"Very well."

"Can I have three dollars? I want to buy something extra this week--some things I really need."

"Ahem! Three dollars is quite a sum. I don't know of any other boy in Riverport who gets as much as three dollars in one week to spend."

"Well, but they haven't as rich a father as I have."

"Ah, quite true," nodded Mr. Bangs, with satisfaction. "I think I can safely lay claim to being the richest man in this district."

"Then I can have the three dollars?" went on Bob, anxiously.

"Yes. Here you are," and his parent brought forth a well-filled wallet and handed over three new one-dollar bills.

Bob was stowing the money away in his pocket and congratulating himself on his luck when a door opened and Mrs. Bangs appeared.

"So you are back, Amos," she said, sweetly. "It has been such a long, lonesome day without you."

"And a busy day for me," answered Amos Bangs, as he pa.s.sed into the sitting room and dropped into an easy chair.

"Did you go to Springfield?"

"I did, and met Tuller and the rest. We've got that thing in our grip now."

"Yes," she said, vaguely. In reality she took no interest whatever in her husband's affairs so long as she got what money she desired.

"Yes, sir--we've got the thing just where we want it," continued Amos Bangs.

"You mean----?" his wife hesitated.

"I mean that iron works affair of course, Viola. Can't you understand at all?"

"Oh--er--yes, of course. Let me see, you were trying to get control so you said."

"Exactly, and I've got it."

"Was not that the works in which Mr. Bartlett is interested?"

"The same."

"Did not he have the control?"

"Yes, but I have it now, and I am going to keep it," answered Amos Bangs, with evident satisfaction.

"Do you mean Jack Bartlett's father, dad?" questioned Bob, eagerly.