More years passed; and at last, one day, after a lapse of nearly a
quarter of a century, the unexpected happened, as it really will
sometimes. Tim got a letter in a handwriting he knew well, instructing
him to call next day at such-and-such a time and place.
Tim was not disobedient to the summons. He called; and found, instead of
the dashing young master he had once known, a soft and savage old man
whom he at first utterly failed to recognize. Surface paced the floor
and spoke his mind. It seemed that an irresistible impulse had led him
back to his old home city; that he had settled and taken work there; and
there meant to end his days. Under these circumstances, some deep-hidden
instinct--a whim, the old man called it--had put it into his head to
consider the claiming and final acknowledgment of his son. After all the
Ishmaelitish years of bitterness and wandering, Surface's blood, it
seemed, yearned for his blood. But under no circumstances, he told Tim,
would he acknowledge his son before his death, since that would involve
the surrender of his incognito; and not even then, so the old man swore,
unless he happened to be pleased with the youth--the son of his body
whom he had so utterly neglected through all these years.
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