I could be happy anywhere with Ernest; and father’s happiness in our changed circumstances rounded out my own happiness.
“When I was a boy,” father said, “I was very curious. I wanted to know why things were and how they came to pass. That was why I became a physicist. The life in me to-day is just as curious as it was in my boyhood, and it’s the being curious that makes life worth living.”
Sometimes he ventured north of Market Street into the shopping and theatre district, where he sold papers, ran errands, and opened cabs. There, one day, closing a cab, he encountered Mr. Wickson. In high glee father described the incident to us that evening.
“Wickson looked at me sharply when I closed the door on him, and muttered, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Just like that he said it, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ His face turned red and he was so confused that he forgot to tip me. But he must have recovered himself quickly, for the cab hadn’t gone fifty feet before it turned around and came back. He leaned out of the door.
“‘Look here, Professor,’ he said, ‘this is too much. What can I do for you?’
“‘I closed the cab door for you,’ I answered. ‘According to common custom you might give me a dime.’
“‘Bother that!’ he snorted. ‘I mean something substantial.’
“He was certainly serious—a twinge of ossified conscience or something; and so I considered with grave deliberation for a moment.
“His face was quite expectant when I began my answer, but you should have seen it when I finished.
“‘You might give me back my home,’ I said, ‘and my stock in the Sierra Mills.’”