That fact alone, he considered, almost gave him the right to interfere.
And, apart from that, his affection for Kirk and Ruth gave him a claim.
Finally, he held what was practically an official position in the
family councils on the strength of being William Bannister Winfield's
godfather.
He loved William Bannister as a son, and it had been one of his
favourite day dreams to conjure up a vision of the time when he should
be permitted to undertake the child's physical training. He had toyed
lovingly with the idea of imparting to this promising pupil all that he
knew of the greatest game on earth. He had watched him in the old days
staggering about the studio, and had pictured him grown to his full
strength, his muscles trained, his brain full of the wisdom of one who,
if his mother had not kicked, would have been middle-weight champion of
America.
He had resigned himself to the fact that the infant's social status
made it impossible that he should be the real White Hope whom he had
once pictured beating all comers in the roped ring; but, after all,
there was a certain mild fame to be acquired even by an amateur. And
now that dream was over--unless Kirk could be goaded into strong action
in time.
"Why don't you sneak the kid away somewhere?" he suggested. "Why don't
you go right in at them and say: 'It's my kid, and I'm going to take
him away into the country out of all this white-tile stuff and let him
roll in the mud same as he used to.
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