"About tips. They pool theirs in the dining-room, between the three. Fanny Garland takes two-fifths, and the other two girls halve the rest."
"They agreed to that?"
"Yes, and between Hulks and myself,—what sort of proportion would you think fair?"
"Three-fifths to you, and two-fifths to him."
"Will you put it to him, sir, or shall I?"
"I'll do it. It will be more official, Stephen."
"Thank you, sir."
At eight o'clock that evening Sorrell met his son on the road where Winstonbury's old water-mill still took the river upon the paddles of its great black, dripping wheel. A stone wall separated the mill-pool from the road, and Sorrell and Kit stood by the wall, looking at the still water and the green willows.
"Buck's gone, Kit. I'm head porter now."
He had his arm across the boy's shoulders.
"It will make a difference. I shall be able to give you something better than that school,—that's to say—if the old Pelican pays."
Kit looked up at his father. More and more was he coming to realize what manner of man his father was, and the knowledge was giving that radiant smile of his'a sacred seriousness.
"You don't seem to think of yourself, pater."
"Oh,—I'm a means to an end, my lad. I've got an object in life. I'm to be envied."
Kit pondered a moment.
"And I'm the object.—I mean—my"
"That's it."
"I'll try and not waste your money, pater. I know how hard you have to work."
