e found his father in a mood
astonishingly savage. At sight of his son the little man became vocal
with meaningless abuse. It was as if the presence of a listener incited
him to continue aloud some tirade that he had pursued in silence. But
the younger Teevan, lounging in the doorway, only stared with polite
concern as he was greeted with these emotional phrases:

"--a damned milk-and-water Narcissus--a pretentious cub with the airs of
a cheap manikin of the world--a squeaking parasite--a toadlike, damned
obscenity----"

An easy smile came to the son's face as he noted the fallen tide in the
decanter.

"Night-night, my quaint, amiable father--and cheery dreams!"

They studied each other a moment. The elder man seemed to meditate some
disclosure, but stopped on the verge of it.

"That's all, my boy!"

The young man laughed again.

"It's enough, I fancy--but don't overdo it, Randy. You know one mustn't
at your age."

"I'm taking care, taking care of everything, my boy--never you fear----"

The other passed on, but stopped at the stairway and called back:

"I say, Randy!"

"Yes--yes----"

"Get to bed, you absurd little rat, you!"

CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT AT THE MONASTERY

Ewing awoke late the next morning, rejoicing that he need not cook his
breakfast. After feeding his hill-born hunger with novel and exciting
foods he sauntered out to become a wave on the tide that flooded those
strange, heart-shaking streets. He mentally blazed his trail as he went.
His soul marched to the swift and cheerful stepping of the life about
him. He remembered Ben's warnings and wished that expert in urban evil
could see how little menacing was this splendid procession. That the
Saturday throng of shoppers and pleasure seekers was unaware of the
greatness of the moment to him lent a zest of secrecy to his scouting.

Back and forth he wandered on Broadway, the moving crowds, volatile as
quicksilver, holding him with a hypnotic power. Often he stopped before
some shop, hotel, or theater that he had come to know in print. Not
until five o'clock did he find that he was leg weary. Then he took his
bearings and, in his own phrase, "made back to camp."

A boy brought him Piersoll's card at six, and Piersoll followed. He came
with that alert self-possession which Ewing had come to consider typical
of these dwellers in a crowd where each is the inconsiderable part of a
great organic body, and must yet preserve his unique oneshi