He did not, however, leap from the car with the spring of anticipation that Bob did, and noticing his spiritless step his friend once more remarked upon it. "You seem bored to death to have to drag yourself through here, Van," said he. "What's the matter? You know if you do not want to come you don't have to." "I do want to." "But somehow you seem so-so--" "So _what?_" "Why, you seem to hang back as if you could hardly put one foot before the other," answered Bob. "Don't you feel well?" "Prime! There's nothing the matter with me. What put that idea into your head?" "Chiefly you yourself." "Well, cut it out. I don't see what you're fussing about me for. I'm just as anxious to see how sugar is made as you are." Still Bob was unconvinced. He could not have explained why, but he felt certain that Van's enthusiasm was feigned. For a second he paused undecidedly on the pavement before the door of the great factory; then shrugging his shoulders he entered, followed closely by his chum. It was evident that they were expected, for a clerk rose from his desk and came forward to greet them. "Mr. Hennessey, the superintendent, said I was to bring you to his office when you arrived," he said. "Thank you." "You are Mr. Carlton's son, aren't you?" "Yes." "I thought you must be. Mr. Hennessey himself is going to take you through the works." The clerk led the way to the door of a private office, where he knocked. "Mr. Carlton and his friend are here," he announced to the boy who opened the door. "Tell Mr. Hennessey right away."