Part 2 (2/2)
”My adopted son and nephew having no such talents, we must do the best we can,” Mr. Ffrench stated, with his most precise coldness. ”Being well-born and well-bred, he has no taste for a mechanic's labor or for circus performances with automobiles in public. Who is your man, Bailey?”
”Lestrange, sir. You must have heard of him often.”
”I never read racing news.”
”I read ours,” said Bailey darkly. ”We've been licked often enough by him. And he's straight--he's one of the few men who'll stop at the grand-stand and lose time reporting a smash-up and sending help around. Every man on the track likes Darling Lestrange.”
”Likes _whom_?”
Bailey flushed brick-red.
”I didn't mean to call him that. He signs himself D. Lestrange, and some of them started reading it Darling, joking because he was such a favorite and because they liked him anyhow. It's just a nickname.”
Emily laughed out involuntarily, surprised.
”I beg pardon,” she at once apologized, ”but it sounded so frivolous.”
”If you try this man, you had better keep that nickname out of the factory,” Mr. Ffrench advised stiffly. ”What respect could the workmen feel for a manager with such a t.i.tle? If possible, you would do well to prevent them from recognizing him as the racing driver.”
Bailey, who had risen at the chime of a clock, halted amazed.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
”Respect for him!” he echoed. ”Not recognize him! Why, there isn't a man on the place who wouldn't give his ears to be seen on the same side of the street with Lestrange, let alone to work under him. They _do_ read the racing news. That part of it will be all right, if I can have him.”
”If it is necessary--”
”I think it is, sir.”
Emily moved slightly, pus.h.i.+ng back her yellow-brown curls under the ribbon that banded them. On a sudden impulse her uncle looked up at her.
”What is your opinion?” he questioned. ”If d.i.c.k had been listening I should have asked his, and I fancy yours is fully as valuable. Come, shall we have this racing manager?”
Astonished, she looked from her uncle to the other man. And perhaps it was the real anxiety and suspense of Bailey's expression that drew her quick reply.
”Let us, uncle. Since we need him, let us have him.”
”Very well,” said Mr. Ffrench. ”You hear, Bailey.”
There was a long silence after the junior partner's withdrawal.
”Come where I can see you, Emily,” her uncle finally demanded. ”I liked your decided answer a few moments ago; you can reason. How long have you been a daughter in my house?”
”Six years,” she responded, obediently moving to a low chair opposite.
”I was fifteen when you took me from the convent--to make me very, very happy, dear.”
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