clerks in
small stores, starveling tradespeople and wives of little merchants. He
answered that she was breeding a pack of snobs that despised their
father and had no mercy on him--and no use for him except as a lemon to
squeeze dry. She answered with a laugh of scorn that lemon was a good
word; and he threw up his hands and returned to the shop if the war
broke out at noon, or slunk up to bed if it followed dinner.

This was the pattern of their daily life. Every night there was a new
theme, but the duet they built on it ran along the same formulas.

The children sided with _Mere_, of course. In the first place, she was a
poor, downtrodden woman; in the second, she was their broker. Her job
was to get them things. They gave her the credit for what she got them.
They gave Pop no praise for yielding--no credit for extracting somehow
from the dry-soil of an arid town the money they extracted from him.
They knew nothing of the myriad little agonies, the ingenuity, the
tireless attention to detail, the exquisite finesse that make success
possible in the melee of competition. Their souls were above trade and
its petty nigglings.

Jno. P., who was now known as J. Pennock, was aiming at a million
dollars in New York, and his mother was sure that he would get it next
time if Pop would only raise him a little more money to meet an
irritating obligation or seize a glittering opportunity. Pop always
raised the money and J. Pennock always lost it. Yet Pennock was a
financier and Pop was a village merchant. And now Pen had come home
unexpectedly. He was showing a great interest in Pop's affairs.

Gerald was home also unexpectedly. He was an artist of the most
wonderful promise. None of his promises was more wonderful than those he
made his father to repay just one more loan--to tide him over until he
sold his next picture; but it never sold, or it sold for a mere song.
Gerald solaced himself and _Mere_ solaced him for being ahead of his
time, unappreciated, too good for the public. She thanked Heaven that
Gerald was a genius, not a salesman. One salesman in the family was
enough!

And Gerald had beaten Pen home by one train. He had greeted Pen somewhat
coldly--as if Pen were a trespasser on his side of the street. And when
it was learned that Julie had telegraphed that she would arrive the next
day, both the brothers had frowned.

Pop had sighed. He was glad to see his wonderful offspring, but he had
already put off the groce