“Why, Nancy Arabella[12],” he said to Mrs Cowperwood on arriving one Sunday afternoon, “you haven't grown an inch! I thought when you married that you were going to fatten up like your brother. But look at you! I swear to Heaven you don't weigh five pounds!”

And he jounced her up and down by the waist, much to the perturbation of the children, who had never before seen their mother so familiarly handled.

Henry Cowperwood was exceedingly interested in and pleased at the arrival of this prosperous relative; for twelve years before, when he was married, Seneca Davis had not taken much notice of him.

“I tell you, Henry,” Seneca continued, “you have a rather nice place here.”

And he looked at the main room of the three-story house with a critical eye.

Since Henry had become teller the family had acquired a piano – a luxury in those days – brought from Europe. It was summer time, the windows were open, and the trees outside, with their widely extended green branches, were pleasantly visible shading the brick sidewalk. Uncle Seneca strolled out into the back yard.

“Well, this is pleasant enough,” he observed, noting a large elm. “Where's your hammock? Don't you string a hammock here in summer? Down on my veranda at San Pedro I have six or seven.”

“We hadn't thought of the hammock because of the neighbors, but it would be nice,” agreed Mrs. Cowperwood. “Henry will have to get one.”

“I have two or three over at the hotel. My servants make them down there. I'll send Manuel over with them in the morning.”

He tweaked Edward's ear, told Joseph, the second boy, he would bring him an Indian tomahawk, and went back into the house.

“This is the lad that interests me,” he said, after a time, laying a hand on the shoulder of Frank. “What did you name him in full, Henry?”

“Frank Algernon.”

“Well, you might have named him after me. There's something to this boy. How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter, my boy?”

“I'm not so sure that I'd like to,” replied the eldest.

“Well, what have you against it?”

“Nothing, except that I don't know anything about it.”

“What do you know?”

The boy smiled wisely. “Not very much, I guess.”

“Well, what are you interested in?”

“Money!”

“Aha! Well, that's a good trait. And you speak like a man, too! We'll talk more about that later. Nancy, you're breeding a financier here, I think. He talks like one.”

He looked at Frank carefully. There was real force in that sturdy young body – no doubt of it. Those large, clear gray eyes were full of intelligence. They indicated much and revealed nothing.

“A smart boy!” he said to Henry. “I like him. You have a bright family.”

Henry Cowperwood smiled dryly. This man, if he liked Frank, might do much for the boy. He might eventually leave him some of his fortune. He was wealthy and single.

Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house – he and his negro bodyguard, Manuel, who spoke both English and Spanish, much to the astonishment of the children; and he took an increasing interest in Frank.

“When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to do, I think I'll help him to do it,” he observed to his sister one day; and she told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank about his studies, and found that he cared little for books. Grammar was an abomination. Literature was silly. Latin was of no use. History – well, it was fairly interesting.

“I like bookkeeping and arithmetic,” the boy observed. “I want get to work. That's what I want to do.”

“You're pretty young, my son,” observed his uncle. “How old are you? Fourteen?”