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    <title>
      Peter, by F. Hopkinson Smith
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peter, by F. Hopkinson Smith

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Peter
       A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero

Author: F. Hopkinson Smith

Release Date: January 14, 2010 [EBook #4516]
Last Updated: March 8, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER ***




Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widger
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team






</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      PETER
    </h1>
    <h1>
      A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By F. Hopkinson Smith
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      Peter was still poring over his ledger one dark afternoon in December, his
      bald head glistening like a huge ostrich egg under the flare of the
      overhead gas jets, when Patrick, the night watchman, catching sight of my
      face peering through the outer grating, opened the door of the Bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight so late in the day was an unusual one, for in all the years that
      I have called at the Bank&mdash;ten, now&mdash;no, eleven since we first
      knew each other&mdash;Peter had seldom failed to be ready for our walk
      uptown when the old moon-faced clock high up on the wall above the stove
      pointed at four.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought there was something up!&rdquo; I cried. &ldquo;What is it, Peter&mdash;balance
      wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not answer, only waved his hand in reply, his bushy gray eyebrows
      moving slowly, like two shutters that opened and closed, as he scanned the
      lines of figures up and down, his long pen gripped tight between his thin,
      straight lips, as a dog carries a bone.
    </p>
    <p>
      I never interrupt him when his brain is nosing about like this; it is
      better to keep still and let him ferret it out. So I sat down outside the
      curved rail with its wooden slats backed by faded green curtains, close to
      the big stove screened off at the end of the long room, fixed one eye on
      the moon-face and the other on the ostrich egg, and waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are no such banks at the present time&mdash;were no others then, and
      this story begins not so very many years ago&mdash;A queer, out-of-date,
      mouldy old barn of a bank, you would say, this Exeter&mdash;for an
      institution wielding its influence. Not a coat of paint for half a
      century; not a brushful of whitewash for goodness knows how much longer.
      As for the floor, it still showed the gullies and grooves, with here and
      there a sturdy knot sticking up like a nut on a boiler, marking the track
      of countless impatient depositors and countless anxious borrowers, it may
      be, who had lock-stepped one behind the other for fifty years or more, in
      their journey from the outer door to the windows where the Peters of the
      old days, and the Peter of the present, presided over the funds entrusted
      to their care.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well enough in its day, you might have said, with a shrug, as you looked
      over its forlorn interior. Well enough in its day! Why, man, old John
      Astor, James Beekman, Rhinelander Stewart, Moses Grinnell, and a lot of
      just such worthies&mdash;men whose word was as good as their notes&mdash;and
      whose notes were often better than the Government's, presided over its
      destinies, and helped to stuff the old-fashioned vault with wads of
      gilt-edged securities&mdash;millions in value if you did but know it&mdash;and
      making it what it is to-day. If you don't believe the first part of my
      statement, you've only to fumble among the heap of dusty ledgers piled on
      top of the dusty shelves; and if you doubt the latter part, then try to
      buy some of the stock and see what you have to pay for it. Although the
      gas was turned off in the directors' room, I could still see from where I
      sat the very mahogany table under which these same ruffle-shirted,
      watch-fobbed, snuff-taking old fellows tucked their legs when they decided
      on who should and who should not share the bank's confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the side walls and surroundings were none the less shabby and quite as
      dilapidated. Even the windows had long since given up the fight to
      maintain a decent amount of light, and as for the grated opening protected
      by iron shutters which would have had barely room to swing themselves
      clear of the building next door, no Patrick past or present had ever dared
      loosen their bolts for a peep even an inch wide into the canyon below, so
      gruesome was the collection of old shoes, tin cans, broken bottles and
      battered hats which successive generations had hurried into the narrow
      un-get-at-able space that lay between the two structures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed the only thing inside or out of this time-worn building which the
      most fertile of imaginations could consider as being at all up to date was
      the clock. Not its face&mdash;that was old-timey enough with its sun, moon
      and stars in blue and gold, and the name of the Liverpool maker engraved
      on its enamel; nor its hands, fiddle-shaped and stiff, nor its case, which
      always reminded me of a coffin set up on end awaiting burial&mdash;but its
      strike. Whatever divergences the Exeter allowed itself in its youth, or
      whatever latitude or longitude it had given its depositors, and that, we
      may be sure, was precious little so long as that Board of Directors was
      alive, there was no wabbling or wavering, no being behind time, when the
      hour hand of the old clock reached three and its note of warning rang out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter obeyed the ominous sound and closed his Teller's window with a
      gentle bang. Patrick took notice and swung to the iron grating of the
      outer door. You might peer in and beg ever so hard&mdash;unless, of
      course, you were a visitor like myself, and even then Peter would have to
      give his consent&mdash;you might peer through, I say, or tap on the glass,
      or you might plead that you were late and very sorry, but the ostrich egg
      never turned in its nest nor did the eyebrows vibrate. Three o'clock was
      three o'clock at the Exeter, and everybody might go to the devil&mdash;financially,
      of course&mdash;before the rule would be broken. Other banks in panicky
      times might keep a side door open until four, five or six&mdash;that is,
      the bronze-rail, marble-top, glass-front, certify-your-checks-as-early-as-
      ten-in-the-morning-without-a-penny-on-deposit kind of banks&mdash;but not
      the Exeter&mdash;that is, not with Peter's consent&mdash;and Peter was the
      Exeter so far as his department was concerned&mdash;and had been for
      nearly thirty years&mdash;twenty as bookkeeper, five as paying teller and
      five as receiving teller.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the regularity and persistency of this clock! Not only did it announce
      the hours, but it sounded the halves and quarters, clearing its throat
      with a whirr like an admonitory cough before each utterance. I had samples
      of its entire repertoire as I sat there:
    </p>
    <p>
      One...two...three...four...five&mdash;then half an hour later a whir-r and
      a single note. &ldquo;Half-past five,&rdquo; I said to myself. &ldquo;Will Peter never find
      that mistake?&rdquo; Once during the long wait the night watchman shifted his
      leg&mdash;he was on the other side of the stove&mdash;and once Peter
      reached up above his head for a pile of papers, spreading them out before
      him under the white glare of the overhead light, then silence again,
      broken only by the slow, dogged tock-tick, tock-tick, or the sagging of a
      hot coal adjusting itself for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly a cheery voice rang out and Peter's hands shot up above his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Breen &amp; Co.! One of those plaguey sevens for a nine. Here we are!
      Oh, Peter Grayson, how often have I told you to be careful! Ah, what a
      sorry block of wood you carry on your shoulders. I won't be a minute now,
      Major.&rdquo; A gratuitous compliment on the part of my friend, I being a poor
      devil of a contractor without military aspirations of any kind. &ldquo;Well,
      well, how could I have been so stupid. Get ready to close up, Patrick. No,
      thank you, Patrick, my coat's inside; I'll fetch it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was quite another man now, closing the great ledger with a bang;
      shouldering it as Moses did the Tables of the Law, and carrying it into
      the big vault behind him&mdash;big enough to back a buggy into had the
      great door been wider&mdash;shooting the bolts, whirring the combination
      into so hopeless and confused a state that should even the most daring and
      expert of burglars have tried his hand or his jimmy on its steel plating
      he would have given up in despair (that is unless big Patrick fell asleep&mdash;an
      unheard-of occurrence) and all with such spring and joyousness of movement
      that had I not seen him like this many times before I would have been
      deluded into the belief that the real Peter had been locked up in the
      dismal vault with the musty books and that an entirely different kind of
      Peter was skipping about outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that was nothing to the air with which he swept his papers into the
      drawer of his desk, brushed away the crumpled sheets upon which he had
      figured his balance, and darted to the washstand behind the narrow
      partition. Nor could it be compared to the way in which he stripped off
      his black bombazine office-coat with its baggy pockets&mdash;quite a
      disreputable-looking coat I must say&mdash;taking it by the nape of the
      neck, as if it were some loathsome object to be got rid of, and hanging it
      upon a hook behind him; nor to the way in which he pulled up his shirt
      sleeves and plunged his white, long-fingered, delicately modeled hands
      into the basin, as if cleanliness were a thing to be welcomed as a part of
      his life. These carefully dried, each finger by itself&mdash;not
      forgetting the small seal ring on the little one&mdash;he gave an extra
      polish to his glistening pate with the towel, patted his fresh,
      smooth-shaven cheeks with an unrumpled handkerchief which he had taken
      from his inside pocket, carefully adjusted his white neck-cloth,
      refastening the diamond pin&mdash;a tiny one but clear as a baby's tear&mdash;put
      on his frock-coat with its high collar and flaring tails, took down his
      silk hat, gave it a flourish with his handkerchief, unhooked his overcoat
      from a peg behind the door (a gray surtout cut something like the first
      Napoleon's) and stepped out to where I sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      You would never have put him down as being sixty years of age had you
      known him as well as I did&mdash;and it is a great pity you didn't.
      Really, now that I come to think of it, I never did put him down as being
      of any age at all. Peter Grayson and age never seemed to have anything to
      do with each other. Sometimes when I have looked in through the Receiving
      Teller's window and have passed in my book&mdash;I kept my account at the
      Exeter&mdash;and he has lifted his bushy shutters and gazed at me suddenly
      with his merry Scotch-terrier eyes, I have caught, I must admit, a line of
      anxiety, or rather of concentrated cautiousness on his face, which for the
      moment made me think that perhaps he was looking a trifle older than when
      I last saw him; but all this was scattered to the winds when I met him an
      hour afterward swinging up Wall Street with that cheery lift of the heels
      so peculiarly his own, a lift that the occupants of every office window on
      both sides of the street knew to be Peter's even when they failed to
      recognize the surtout and straight-brimmed high hat. Had any doubting
      Thomas, however, walked beside him on his way up Broadway to his rooms on
      Fifteenth Street, and had the quick, almost boyish lift of Peter's heels
      not entirely convinced the unbeliever of Peter's youth, all questions
      would have been at once disposed of had the cheery bank teller invited him
      into his apartment up three flights of stairs over the tailor's shop&mdash;and
      he would have invited him had he been his friend&mdash;and then and there
      forced him into an easy chair near the open wood fire, with some such
      remark as: &ldquo;Down, you rascal, and sit close up where I can get my hands on
      you!&rdquo; No&mdash;there was no trace of old age about Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was ready now&mdash;hatted, coated and gloved&mdash;not a hint of the
      ostrich egg or shaggy shutters visible, but a well-preserved bachelor of
      forty or forty-five; strictly in the mode and of the mode, looking more
      like some stray diplomat caught in the wiles of the Street, or some
      retired magnate, than a modest bank clerk on three thousand a year. The
      next instant he was tripping down the granite steps between the rusty iron
      railings&mdash;on his toes most of the way; the same cheery spring in his
      heels, slapping his thin, shapely legs with his tightly rolled umbrella,
      adjusting his hat at the proper angle so that the well-trimmed side
      whiskers&mdash;the veriest little dabs of whiskers hardly an inch long&mdash;would
      show as well as the fringes of his grey hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not that he was anxious to conceal these slight indications of advancing
      years, nor did he have a spark of cheap personal vanity about him, but
      because it was his nature always to put his best foot foremost and keep it
      there; because, too, it behooved him in manner, dress and morals, to
      maintain the standards he had set for himself, he being a Grayson, with
      the best blood of the State in his veins, and with every table worth
      dining at open to him from Fourteenth Street to Murray Hill, and beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, it's all behind me, my dear boy,&rdquo; he cried, as we reached the
      sidewalk and turned our faces up Wall Street toward Broadway. &ldquo;Fifteen
      hours to live my own life! No care until ten o'clock to-morrow. Lovely
      life, my dear Major, when you think of it. Ah, old Micawber was right&mdash;income
      one pound, expense one pound ten shillings; result, misery: income one
      pound ten, expense one pound, outcome, happiness! What a curse this Street
      is to those who abuse its power for good; half of them trying to keep out
      of jail and the other half fighting to keep out of the poor-house! And
      most of them get so little out of it. Just as I can detect a counterfeit
      bill at sight, my boy, so can I put my finger on these money-getters when
      the poison of money-getting for money's sake begins to work in their
      veins. I don't mean the laying up of money for a rainy day, or the
      providing for one's family. Every man should lay up a six-months' doctor's
      bill, just as every man should lay up money enough to keep his body out of
      Potter's Field. It's laying up the SURPLUS that hurts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter had his arm firmly locked in mine now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now that concern of Breen &amp; Company, where I found my error, are no
      better than the others. They are new to this whirlpool, but they will soon
      get in over their heads. I think it is only the third or fourth year since
      they started business, but they are already floating all sorts of schemes,
      and some of them&mdash;if you will permit me in confidence, strictly in
      confidence, my dear boy&mdash;are rather shady, I think: at least I judge
      so from their deposits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are they, bankers?&rdquo; I ventured. I had never heard of the firm; not
      an extraordinary thing in my case when bankers were concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter laughed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, BANKERS&mdash;all in capital letters&mdash;the imitation kind. Breen
      came from some place out of town and made a lucky hit in his first year&mdash;mines
      or something&mdash;I forget what. Oh, but you must know that it takes very
      little now-a-days to make a full-fledged banker. All you have to do is to
      hoist in a safe&mdash;through the window, generally, with the crowd
      looking on; rail off half the office; scatter some big ledgers over two or
      three newly varnished desks; move in a dozen arm-chairs, get a ticker, a
      black-board and a boy with a piece of chalk; be pleasant to every fellow
      you meet with his own or somebody else's money in his pocket, and there
      you are. But we won't talk of these things&mdash;it isn't kind, and,
      really, I hardly know Breen, and I'm quite sure he wouldn't know me if he
      saw me, and he's a very decent gentleman in many ways, I hear. He never
      overdraws his account, any way&mdash;never tries&mdash;and that's more
      than I can say for some of his neighbors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fog, which earlier in the afternoon had been but a blue haze,
      softening the hard outlines of the street, had now settled down in
      earnest, choking up the doorways, wiping out the tops of the buildings,
      their facades starred here and there with gas-jets, and making a smudged
      drawing of the columns of the Custom House opposite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Superb, are they not?&rdquo; said Peter, as he wheeled and stood looking at the
      row of monoliths supporting the roof of the huge granite pile, each column
      in relief against the dark shadows of the portico. &ldquo;And they are never so
      beautiful to me, my boy, as when the ugly parts of the old building are
      lost in the fog. Follow the lines of these watchmen of the temple! These
      grave, dignified, majestic columns standing out in the gloom keeping
      guard! But it is only a question of time&mdash;down they'll come! See if
      they don't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will never dare move them,&rdquo; I protested. &ldquo;It would be too great a
      sacrilege.&rdquo; The best way to get Peter properly started is never to agree
      with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not move them! They will break them up for dock-filling before ten years
      are out. They're in the way, my boy; they shut out the light; can't hang
      signs on them; can't plaster them over with theatre bills; no earthly use.
      'Wall Street isn't Rome or any other excavated ruin; it's the centre of
      the universe'&mdash;that's the way the fellows behind these glass windows
      talk.&rdquo; Here Peter pointed to the offices of some prominent bankers, where
      other belated clerks were still at work under shaded gas-jets. &ldquo;These
      fellows don't want anything classic; they want something that'll earn four
      per cent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We were now opposite the Sub-Treasury, its roof lost in the settling fogs,
      the bronze figure of the Father of His Country dominating the flight of
      marble steps and the adjacent streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Peter wheeled; this time he lifted his hat to the statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening, your Excellency,&rdquo; he said in a voice mellowed to the same
      respectful tone with which he would have addressed the original in the
      flesh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he loosened his arm from mine and squared himself so he could
      look into my face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I notice that you seldom salute him, Major, and it grieves me,&rdquo; he said
      with a grim smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      I broke into a laugh. &ldquo;Do you think he would feel hurt if I didn't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he would, and so should you. He wasn't put there for ornament,
      my boy, but to be kept in mind, and I want to tell you that there's no
      place in the world where his example is so much needed as right here in
      Wall Street. Want of reverence, my dear boy&rdquo;&mdash;here he adjusted his
      umbrella to the hollow of his arm&mdash;&ldquo;is our national sin. Nobody
      reveres anything now-a-days. Much as you can do to keep people from
      running railroads through your family vaults, and, as to one's character,
      all a man needs to get himself battered black and blue, is to try to be of
      some service to his country. Even our presidents have to be murdered
      before we stop abusing them. By Jove! Major, you've GOT to salute him!
      You're too fine a man to run to seed and lose your respect for things
      worth while. I won't have it, I tell you! Off with your hat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I at once uncovered my head (the fog helped to conceal my own identity, if
      it didn't Peter's) and stood for a brief instant in a respectful attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing new in the discussion. Sometimes I would laugh at him;
      sometimes I would only touch my hat in unison; sometimes I let him do the
      bowing alone, an act on his part which never attracted attention&mdash;looking
      more as if he had accosted some passing friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had reached Broadway by this time and were crossing the street opposite
      Trinity Churchyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come over here with me,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;and let us look in through the iron
      railings. The study of the dead is often more profitable than knowledge of
      the living. Ah, the gate is open! It is not often I am here at this time,
      and on a foggy afternoon. What a noble charity, my boy, is a fog&mdash;it
      hides such a multitude of sins&mdash;bad architecture for one,&rdquo; and he
      laughed softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      I always let Peter run on&mdash;in fact I always encourage him to run on.
      No one I know talks quite in the same way; many with a larger experience
      of life are more profound, but none have the personal note which
      characterizes the old fellow's discussions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how do you suppose these by-gones feel about what is going on around
      them?&rdquo; he rattled on, tapping the wet slab of a tomb with the end of his
      umbrella. &ldquo;And not only these sturdy patriots who lie here, but the queer
      old ghosts who live in the steeple?&rdquo; he added, waving his hand upward to
      the slender spire, its cross lost in the fog. &ldquo;Yes, ghosts and goblins, my
      boy. You don't believe it?&mdash;I do&mdash;or I persuade myself I do,
      which is better. Sometimes I can see them straddling the chimes when they
      ring out the hours, or I catch them peeping out between the slats of the
      windows away up near the cross. Very often in the hot afternoons when you
      are stretching your lazy body under the tents of the mighty&mdash;&rdquo; (Peter
      referred to some friends of mine who owned a villa down on Long Island,
      and were good enough to ask me down for a week in August) &ldquo;I come up here
      out of the rush and sit on these old tombstones and talk to these old
      fellows&mdash;both kinds&mdash;the steeple boys and the old cronies under
      the sod. You never come, I know. You will when you're my age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I had it in my mind to tell him that the inside of a dry tent had some
      advantages over the outside of a damp tomb, so far as entertaining one's
      friends, even in hot weather, was concerned, but I was afraid it might
      stop the flow of his thoughts, and checked myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not so much the rest and quiet that delights me, as the feeling
      that I am walled about for the moment and protected; jerked out of the
      whirlpool, as it were, and given a breathing spell. On these afternoons
      the old church becomes a church once more&mdash;not a gate to bar out the
      rush of commercialism. See where she stands&mdash;quite out to the very
      curb, her warning finger pointing upward. 'Thus far shalt thou come, and
      no farther,' she cries out to the Four Per Cents. 'Hug up close to me, you
      old fellows asleep in your graves; get under my lea. Let us fight it out
      together, the living and the dead!' And now hear these abominable Four Per
      Cents behind their glass windows: 'No place for a church,' they say. 'No
      place for the dead! Property too valuable. Move it up town. Move it out in
      the country&mdash;move it any where so you get it out of our way. We are
      the Great Amalgamated Crunch Company. Into our maw goes respect for
      tradition, reverence for the dead, decency, love of religion, sentiment,
      and beauty. These are back numbers. In their place, we give you something
      real and up-to-date from basement to flagstaff, with fifty applicants on
      the waiting list. If you don't believe it read our prospectus!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter had straightened and was standing with his hand lifted above his
      head, as if he were about to pronounce a benediction. Then he said slowly,
      and with a note of sadness in his voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wonder, now, my boy, why I touch my hat to His Excellency?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      All the way up Broadway he kept up his good-natured tirade, railing at the
      extravagance of the age, at the costly dinners, equipages, dress of the
      women, until we reached the foot of the dilapidated flight of brown-stone
      steps leading to the front door of his home on Fifteenth Street. Here a
      flood of gas light from inside a shop in the basement brought into view
      the figure of a short, squat, spectacled little man bending over a
      cutting-table, a pair of shears in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isaac is still at work,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;If we were not so late we'd go in and
      have a word with him. Now there's a man who has solved the problem, my
      boy. Nobody will ever coax Isaac Cohen up to Fifth Avenue and into a 'By
      appointment to His Majesty' kind of a tailor shop. Just pegs away year
      after year&mdash;he was here long before I came&mdash;supporting his
      family, storing his mind with all sorts of rare knowledge. Do you know
      he's one of the most delightful men you will meet in a day's journey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;never knew anything of the kind. Thought he was just plain
      tailor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And an intimate friend of many of the English actors who come over here?&rdquo;
       continued Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never heard a word about it&rdquo; I answered meekly; Peter's acquaintances
      being too varied and too numerous for me to keep track of. That he should
      have a tailor among them as learned and wise as Solomon, and with friends
      all over the globe, was quite to be expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he is,&rdquo; answered Peter. &ldquo;They always hunt him up the first thing
      they do. He lived in London for years and made their costumes. There's no
      one, I assure you, I am more glad to see when he makes an excuse to rap at
      my door. You'll come up, of course, until I read my letters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'll keep on to my rooms and meet you later at the club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll do nothing of the kind, you restless mortal. You'll come upstairs
      with me until I open my mail. It's really like touching the spring of a
      Jack-in-the-box, this mail of mine&mdash;all sorts of things pop out,
      generally the unexpected. Mighty interesting, I tell you,&rdquo; and with a
      cheery wave of the hand to his friend Isaac, whose eyes had been looking
      streetward at the precise moment, Peter pushed me ahead of him up the worn
      marble steps flanked by the rust-eaten iron railing which led to the
      hallway and stairs, and so on up to his apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was just the sort of house Peter, of all men in the world, would have
      picked out to live in&mdash;and he had been here for twenty years or more.
      Not only did the estimable Isaac occupy the basement, but Madame Montini,
      the dress-maker, had the first floor back; a real-estate agent made free
      with the first floor front, and a very worthy teacher of music, whose
      piano could be heard at all hours of the day, and far into the night, was
      paying rent for the second, both front and back. Peter's own apartments
      ran the whole length of the third floor, immediately under the slanting,
      low-ceiled garret, which was inhabited by the good Mrs. McGuffey, the
      janitress, who, in addition to her regular duties, took especial care of
      Peter's rooms. Adjoining these was a small apartment consisting of two
      rooms, connecting with Peter's suite by a door cut through for some former
      lodger. These were also under Mrs. McGuffey's special care and very good
      care did she take of them, especially when Peter's sister, Miss Felicia
      Grayson, occupied them for certain weeks in the year.
    </p>
    <p>
      These changes had all taken place in the time the old fellow had mounted
      the quaint stairs with the thin mahogany banisters, and yet Peter stayed
      on. &ldquo;The gnarled pear tree in the back yard is so charming,&rdquo; he would urge
      in excuse, &ldquo;especially in the spring, when the perfume of its blossoms
      fills the air,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;the view overlooking Union Square is so delightful,&rdquo;
       or, &ldquo;the fireplace has such a good draught.&rdquo; What mattered it who lived
      next door, or below, or overhead, for that matter, so that he was not
      disturbed&mdash;and he never was. The property, of course, had gone from
      bad to worse since the owner had died; the neighborhood had run down, and
      the better class of tenants down, up, and even across the street&mdash;had
      moved away, but none of these things had troubled Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      And no wonder, when once you got inside the two rooms and looked about!
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a four-post bedstead with chintz curtains draped about the
      posts, that Martha Washington might have slept in, and a chintz petticoat
      which reached the floor and hid its toes of rollers, which the dear lady
      could have made with her own hands; there was a most ancient mahogany
      bureau to match, all brass fittings. There were easy chairs with restful
      arms within reach of tables holding lamps, ash receivers and the like; and
      rows and rows of books on open shelves edged with leather; not to mention
      engravings of distinguished men and old portraits in heavy gilt frames:
      one of his grandfather who fought in the Revolution, and another of his
      mother&mdash;this last by Rembrandt Peale&mdash;a dear old lady with the
      face of a saint framed in a head of gray hair, the whole surmounted by a
      cluster of silvery curls. There were quaint brass candelabra with square
      marble bases on each end of the mantel, holding candles showing burnt
      wicks in the day time and cheery lights at night; and a red carpet
      covering both rooms and red table covers and red damask curtains, and a
      lounge with a red afghan thrown over it; and last, but by no means least&mdash;in
      fact it was the most important thing in the sitting-room, so far as
      comfort was concerned&mdash;there was a big open-hearth Franklin, full of
      blazing red logs, with brass andirons and fender, and a draught of such
      marvellous suction that stray scraps of paper, to say nothing of
      uncommonly large sparks, had been known more than once to have been picked
      up in a jiffy and whirled into its capacious throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just the very background for dear old Peter, I always said, whenever I
      watched him moving about the cheery interior, pushing up a chair, lighting
      a fresh candle, or replacing a book on the shelf. What a half-length the
      great Sully would have made of him, with his high collar, white
      shirt-front and wonderful neck-cloth with its pleats and counterpleats, to
      say nothing of his rosy cheeks and bald head, the high light glistening on
      one of his big bumps of benevolence. And what a background of deep reds
      and warm mahoganys with a glint of yellow brass for contrast!
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, I have often thought that not only Peter's love of red, but much
      of Peter's quaintness of dress, had been suggested by some of the old
      portraits which lined the walls of his sitting-room&mdash;his grandfather,
      by Sully, among them; and I firmly believe, although I assure you I have
      never mentioned it to any human being before, that had custom permitted
      (the directors of his bank, perhaps), Peter would not only have indulged
      in the high coat-collar and quaint neck-cloths of his fathers, but would
      also have worn a dainty cue tied with a flowing black ribbon, always
      supposing, of course, that his hair had held out, and, what is more
      important, always supposing, that the wisp was long enough to hold on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one article, however, which, more than any other one thing in his
      apartment, revealed his tastes and habits, was a long, wide, ample
      mahogany desk, once the property of an ancestor, which stood under the
      window in the front room. In this, ready to his hand, were drawers little
      and big, full of miscellaneous papers and envelopes; pigeon-holes crammed
      full of answered and unanswered notes, some with crests on them, some with
      plain wax clinging to the flap of the broken envelopes; many held together
      with the gum of the common world. Here, too, were bundles of old letters
      tied with tape; piles of pamphlets, quaint trays holding pens and pencils,
      and here too was always to be found, in summer or in winter, a big vase
      full of roses or blossoms, or whatever was in season&mdash;a luxury he
      never denied himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this desk, then, Peter betook himself the moment he had hung his gray
      surtout on its hook in the closet and disposed of his hat and umbrella.
      This was his up-town office, really, and here his letters awaited him.
    </p>
    <p>
      First came a notice of the next meeting of the Numismatic Society of which
      he was an honored member; then a bill for his semi-annual dues at the
      Century Club; next a delicately scented sheet inviting him to dine with
      the Van Wormleys of Washington Square, to meet an English lord and his
      lady, followed by a pressing letter to spend Sunday with friends in the
      country. Then came a long letter from his sister, Miss Felicia Grayson,
      who lived in the Genesee Valley and who came to New York every winter for
      what she was pleased to call &ldquo;The Season&rdquo; (a very remarkable old lady,
      this Miss Felicia Grayson, with a mind of her own, sections of which she
      did not hesitate to ventilate when anybody crossed her or her path, and of
      whom we shall hear more in these pages), together with the usual
      assortment of bills and receipts, the whole an enlivening record not only
      of Peter's daily life and range of taste, but of the limitations of his
      purse as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      One letter was reserved for the last. This he held in his hand until he
      again ran his eye over the pile before him. It was from Holker Morris the
      architect, a man who stood at the head of his profession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Holker's handwriting,&rdquo; he said as he inserted the end of the paper
      cutter. &ldquo;I wonder what the dear fellow wants now?&rdquo; Here he ran his eye
      over the first page. &ldquo;Listen, Major. What an extraordinary man... He's
      going to give a dinner, he says, to his draughtsmen... in his offices at
      the top of his new building, six stories up. Does the rascal think I have
      nothing to do but crawl up his stairs? Here, I'll read it to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'You, dear Peter:' That's just like Holker! He begins that way when he
      wants me to do something for him. 'No use saying you won't come, for I
      shall be around for you at seven o'clock with a club&mdash;'No, that's not
      it&mdash;he writes so badly&mdash;'with a cab.' Yes, that's it&mdash;'with
      a cab.' I wonder if he can drive me up those six flights of stairs?
      'There'll be something to eat, and drink, and there will be fifty or more
      of my draughtsmen and former employees. I'm going to give them a dinner
      and a house-warming. Bring the Major if you see him. I have sent a note to
      his room, but it may not reach him. No dress suit, remember. Some of my
      men wouldn't know one if they saw it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the letter dropped from Peter's hand a scraping of feet was heard at
      the hall door, followed by a cheery word from Mrs. McGuffey&mdash;she had
      her favorites among Peter's friends&mdash;and Holker Morris burst into the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, caught you both!&rdquo; he cried, all out of breath with his run upstairs,
      his hat still on his head. No one blew in and blew out of Peter's room
      (literally so) with the breeze and dash of the distinguished architect.
      &ldquo;Into your coats, you two&mdash;we haven't a moment to spare. You got my
      letter, of course,&rdquo; he added, throwing back the cape of his raincoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Holker, just opened it!&rdquo; cried Peter, holding out both hands to his
      guest. &ldquo;But I'm not going. I am too old for your young fellows&mdash;take
      the Major and leave me behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The architect grabbed Peter by the arm. &ldquo;When did that mighty idea crack
      its way through that shell of yours, you tottering Methusaleh! Old! You're
      spryer than a frolicking lamb in March. You are coming, too, Major. Get
      into your coats and things!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Isaac is pressing my swallow-tail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't mean your dress-coat, man&mdash;your OVERCOAT! Now I am sure you
      didn't read my letter? Some of my young fellows haven't got such a thing&mdash;too
      poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But look at YOURS!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I had to slip into mine out of respect to the occasion; my boys
      wouldn't like it if I didn't. Sort of uniform to them, but they'd be
      mighty uncomfortable if you wore yours. Hurry up, we haven't a minute to
      lose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter had forced the architect into one of the big chairs by the fire by
      this time, and stood bending over him, his hands resting on Morris's broad
      shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the Major with you, that's a good fellow, and let me drop in about
      eleven o'clock,&rdquo; he pleaded, an expression on his face seen only when two
      men understand and love each other. &ldquo;There's a letter from Felicia to
      attend to; she writes she is coming down for a couple of weeks, and then
      I've really had a devil of a day at the bank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you old fraud, you can't wheedle me that way. I want you before
      everybody sits down, so my young chaps can look you over. Why, Peter,
      you're better than a whole course of lectures, and you mean something, you
      beggar! I tell you&rdquo; (here he lifted himself from the depths of the chair
      and scrambled to his feet) &ldquo;you've got to go if I have to tie your hands
      and feet and carry you downstairs on my back! And you, too, Major&mdash;both
      of you. Here's your overcoat&mdash;into it, you humbug!... the other arm.
      Is this your hat? Out you go!&rdquo; and before I had stopped laughing&mdash;I
      had refused to crowd the cab&mdash;Morris had buttoned the surtout over
      Peter's breast, crammed the straight-brimmed hat over his eyes, and the
      two were clattering downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      Long before the two had reached the top floor of the building in which the
      dinner was to be given, they had caught the hum of the merrymakers, the
      sound bringing a smile of satisfaction to Peter's face, but it was when he
      entered the richly colored room itself, hazy with cigarette smoke, and
      began to look into the faces of the guests grouped about him and down the
      long table illumined by myriads of wax candles that all his doubts and
      misgivings faded into thin air. Never since his school days, he told me
      afterwards, had he seen so many boisterously happy young fellows grouped
      together. And not only young fellows, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes,
      but older men with thoughtful faces, who had relinquished for a day the
      charge of some one of the important buildings designed in the
      distinguished architect's office, and had spent the night on the train
      that they might do honor to their Chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was when Morris, with his arm fast locked in his, began introducing
      him right and left as the &ldquo;Guest of Honor of the Evening,&rdquo; the two shaking
      hands first with one and then another, Morris breaking out into joyous
      salvos of welcome over some arrival from a distant city, or greeting with
      marked kindness and courtesy one of the younger men from his own office,
      that the old fellow's enthusiasm became uncontrollable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't it glorious, Holker!&rdquo; he cried joyously, with uplifted hands. &ldquo;Oh,
      I'm so glad I came! I wouldn't have missed this for anything in the world.
      Did you ever see anything like it? This is classic, my boy&mdash;it has
      the tang and the spice of the ancients.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morris's greeting to me was none the less hearty, although he had left me
      but half an hour before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Late, as I expected, Major,&rdquo; he cried with out-stretched hand, &ldquo;and
      serves you right for not sitting in Peter's lap in the cab. Somebody ought
      to sit on him once in a while. He's twenty years younger already. Here,
      take this seat alongside of me where you can keep him in order&mdash;they
      were at table when I entered. Waiter, bring back that bottle&mdash;Just a
      light claret, Major&mdash;all we allow ourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the evening wore away the charm of the room grew upon me. Vistas hazy
      with tobacco smoke opened up; the ceiling lost in the fog gave one the
      impression of out-of-doors&mdash;like a roof-garden at night; a delusion
      made all the more real by the happy uproar. And then the touches here and
      there by men whose life had been the study of color and effects; the
      appointments of the table, the massing of flowers relieving the white
      cloth; the placing of shaded candles, so that only a rosy glow filtered
      through the room, softening the light on the happy faces&mdash;each scalp
      crowned with chaplets of laurel tied with red ribbons: an enchantment of
      color, form and light where but an hour before only the practical and the
      commonplace had held sway.
    </p>
    <p>
      No vestige of the business side of the offices remained. Peter pointed out
      to me a big plaster model of the State House, which filled one end of the
      room, and two great figures, original plaster casts, heroic in size, that
      Harding, the sculptor, had modelled for either side of the entrance of the
      building; but everything that smacked of T-square or scale was hidden from
      sight. In their place, lining the walls, stood a row of standards of red
      and orange silk, stretched on rods and supported by poles; the same
      patterns of banners which were carried before Imperial Caesars when they
      took an airing; and now emblazoned with the titles of the several
      structures conceived in the brain of Holker Morris and executed by his
      staff: the Imperial Library in Tokio; the great Corn Exchange covering a
      city block; the superb Art Museum crowning the highest hill in the Park;
      the beautiful chateau of the millionaire surrounded by thousands of acres
      of virgin forest; the spacious warehouses on the water front, and many
      others.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the passing of the flagons an electric current of good fellowship
      flashed around the circle. Stories that would have been received with but
      a bare smile at the club were here greeted with shouts of laughter.
      Bon-mots, skits, puns and squibs mouldy with age or threadbare with use,
      were told with a new gusto and welcomed with delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly, and without any apparent reason, these burst forth a roar like
      that of a great orchestra with every instrument played at its loudest&mdash;rounds
      of applause from kettle-drums, trombones and big horns; screams of
      laughter from piccolos, clarionettes and flutes, buzzings of subdued talk
      by groups of bass viols and the lesser strings, the whole broken by the
      ringing notes of a song that soared for an instant clear of the din, only
      to be overtaken and drowned in the mighty shout of approval. This was
      followed by a stampede from the table; the banners were caught up with a
      mighty shout and carried around the room; Morris, boy for the moment,
      springing to his feet and joining in the uproar.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only guest who kept his chair, except Peter and myself, was a young
      fellow two seats away, whose eyes, brilliant with excitement, followed the
      merrymaking, but who seemed too much abashed, or too ill at ease, to join
      in the fun. I had noticed how quiet he was and wondered at the cause.
      Peter had also been watching the boy and had said to me that he had a good
      face and was evidently from out of town.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you get up?&rdquo; Peter called to him at last. &ldquo;Up with you, my lad.
      This is one of the times when every one of you young fellows should be on
      your feet.&rdquo; He would have grabbed a banner himself had any one given him
      the slightest encouragement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would, sir, but I'm out of it,&rdquo; said the young man with a deferential
      bow, moving to the empty seat next to Peter. He too had been glancing at
      Peter from time to time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren't you with Mr. Morris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I wish I were. I came with my friend, Garry Minott, that young fellow
      carrying the banner with 'Corn Exchange' marked on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And may I ask, then, what you do?&rdquo; continued Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young fellow looked into the older man's kindly eyes&mdash;something
      in their expression implied a wish to draw him the closer&mdash;and said
      quite simply: &ldquo;I don't do anything that is of any use, sir. Garry says
      that I might as well work in a faro bank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter leaned forward. For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as he
      scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his well-knit,
      well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his scalp, cleanly
      modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth&mdash;especially the mobile
      lips which seemed quivering from some suppressed emotion&mdash;all telling
      of a boy delicately nurtured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you really work in a faro bank?&rdquo; Peter's knowledge of human nature
      had failed him for once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry's jokes. I'm clerk in a stock
      broker's office on Wall Street. Arthur Breen &amp; Company. My uncle is
      head of the firm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that's it, is it?&rdquo; answered Peter in a relieved tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?&rdquo; asked the young
      man. &ldquo;You seem so different from the others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win,&rdquo; replied Peter, at
      which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being kindled between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added with a
      smile: &ldquo;I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest in Wall Street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm very glad, sir,&rdquo; he said, with a smile. &ldquo;Do you know, sir, you look
      something like my own father&mdash;what I can remember of him&mdash;that
      is, he was&mdash;&rdquo; The lad checked himself, fearing he might be
      discourteous. &ldquo;That is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore his cravats
      like you, too. I have his portrait in my room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his hand on
      his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost impossible. &ldquo;And
      now tell me your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further
      confidences were impossible. The banners had been replaced and every one
      was reseated, talking or laughing. On one side raged a discussion as to
      how far the decoration of a plain surface should go&mdash;&ldquo;Roughing it,&rdquo;
       some of them called it. At the end of the table two men were wrangling as
      to whether the upper or the lower half of a tall structure should have its
      vertical lines broken; and, if so, by what. Further down high-keyed voices
      were crying out against the abomination of the flat roof on the more
      costly buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would wake up to
      the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less ugly&mdash;even
      if it did cost a little more. Still a third group were in shouts of
      laughter over a story told by one of the staff who had just returned from
      an inspection trip west.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a moment a
      couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to each other in mock
      ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from the borrowed flagons, then
      glanced toward his friend Minott, just then the centre of a cyclone that
      was stirring the group midway the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come over here, Garry,&rdquo; he called, half rising to his feet to attract his
      friend's attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the story had
      been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson&mdash;the
      very dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life. Sits right
      next to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high collar?&rdquo;
       muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. &ldquo;We've been wondering where Mr.
      Morris dug him up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush,&rdquo; said Breen&mdash;&ldquo;he'll hear you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad when you
      get close to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter rose to his feet. &ldquo;I DO know him,&rdquo; he said, holding out his hand
      cordially. &ldquo;I've been knowing him all the evening. He's made most of the
      fun at his end of the table. You seem to have flaunted your Corn Exchange
      banner on the smallest provocation, Mr. Minott,&rdquo; and Peter's fingers
      gripped those of the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's because I've been in charge of the inside work. Great dinner,
      isn't it, Mr. Grayson. But it's Britton who has made the dinner. He's more
      fun than a Harlem goat with a hoopskirt. See him&mdash;that's Brit with a
      red head and blue neck-tie. He's been all winter in Wisconsin looking
      after some iron work and has come back jam full of stories.&rdquo; The dignity
      of Peter's personality had evidently not impressed the young man, judging
      from the careless tone with which he addressed him. &ldquo;And how are you
      getting on, Jack&mdash;glad you came, ar'n't you?&rdquo; As he spoke he laid his
      hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. &ldquo;Didn't I tell you it would be
      a corker? Out of sight, isn't it? Everything is out of sight around our
      office.&rdquo; This last remark was directed to Peter in the same casual way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should say that every stopper was certainly out,&rdquo; answered Peter in
      graver tones. He detested slang and would never understand it. Then again
      the bearing and air of Jack's friend jarred on him. &ldquo;You know, of course,
      the old couplet&mdash;'When the wine flows the&mdash;'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't know it,&rdquo; interrupted Minott with an impatient glance. &ldquo;I'm
      not much on poetry&mdash;but you can bet your bottom dollar it's flowing
      all right.&rdquo; Then seeing the shade of disappointment on Breen's face at the
      flippant way in which he had returned Peter's courtesies, but without
      understanding the cause, he added, tightening his arm around his friend's
      neck, &ldquo;Brace up, Jack, old man, and let yourself go. That's what I'm
      always telling Jack, Mr. Grayson. He's got to cut loose from a lot of
      old-fashioned notions that he brought from home if he wants to get
      anywhere around here. I had to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want him to give up, Mr. Minott?&rdquo; Peter had put on his
      glasses now, and was inspecting Garry at closer range.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know&mdash;just get into the swing of things and let her go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is no trouble for you to do,&rdquo; rejoined Jack, looking into his
      friend's face. &ldquo;You're doing something that's worth while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, aren't you doing something that's worth while? Why you'll be a
      millionaire if you keep on. First thing you know the lightning will strike
      you just as it did your uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morris leaned forward at the moment and called Minott by name. Instantly
      the young man's manner changed to one of respectful attention as he
      stepped to his Chief's side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Morris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You tell the men up your way to get ready to come to order, or we won't
      get through in time&mdash;it's getting late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, sir, I'll take care of 'em. Just as soon as you begin to speak
      you won't hear a sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Minott moved from Morris's seat another and louder shout arose from the
      other end of the table:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry, Garry, hurry up!&rdquo; came the cry. It was evident the young man was
      very popular.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter dropped his glasses from his nose, and turning toward Morris said in
      a low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a very breezy young man, Holker, the one who has just left us. Got
      something in him, has he, besides noise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, considerable. Wants toning down once in a while, but there's no
      question of his ability or of his loyalty. He never shirks a duty and
      never forgets a kindness. Queer combination when you think of it, Peter.
      What he will make of himself is another matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter drew his body back and sent his thoughts out on an investigating
      tour. He was wondering what effect the influence of a young man like
      Minott would have on a young man like Breen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The waiters at this point brought in huge trays holding bowls of tobacco
      and long white clay pipes, followed by even larger trays bearing coffee in
      little cups. Morris waited a moment and then rapped for order. Instantly a
      hush fell upon the noisy room; plates and glasses were pushed back so as
      to give the men elbow room; pipes were hurriedly lighted, and each guest
      turned his chair so as to face the Chief, who was now on his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he stood erect, one hand behind his back, the other stretched toward
      the table in his appeal for silence, I thought for the hundredth time how
      kind his fifty years had been to him; how tightly knit his figure; how
      well his clothes became him. A handsome, well-groomed man at all times and
      in any costume&mdash;but never so handsome or so well groomed as in
      evening dress. Everything in his make-up helped: the broad, square
      shoulders, arms held close to his side; flat waist; incurving back and
      narrow hips. His well-modelled, aristocratic head, too, seemed to gain
      increased distinction when it rose clear from a white shirt-front which
      served as a kind of marble pedestal for his sculptured head. There was,
      moreover, in his every move and look, that quality of transparent
      sincerity which always won him friends at sight. &ldquo;If men's faces are
      clocks,&rdquo; Peter always said, &ldquo;Holker's is fitted with a glass dial. You can
      not only see what time it is, but you can see the wheels that move his
      heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was about to speak now, his eyes roaming the room waiting for the last
      man to be still. No fumbling of glasses or rearranging of napkin, but
      erect, with a certain fearless air that was as much a part of his nature
      as was his genius. Beginning in a clear, distinct voice which reached
      every ear in the room, he told them first how welcome they were. How great
      an honor it was for him to have them so close to him&mdash;so close that
      he could look into all their faces with one glance; not only those who
      came from a distance but those of his personal staff, to whom really the
      success of the year's work had been due. As for himself, he was, as they
      knew, only the lead horse in the team, going ahead to show them the way,
      while they did the effective pulling that brought the load to market! Here
      he slipped his hand in his pocket, took from it a small box which he laid
      beside his plate, and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At these festivals, as you know, and if my memory serves me this is our
      third, it has always been our custom to give some slight token of our
      appreciation to the man who has done most during the year to further the
      work of the office. This has always been a difficult thing to decide,
      because every one of you, without a single exception, has given the best
      that is in you in the general result. Three years ago, you remember, it
      was awarded to the man who by common consent had carried to completion,
      and without a single error, the detailed drawings of the Museum which was
      finished last year. I am looking at you, Mr. Downey, and again
      congratulate you. Last year it was awarded to Mr. Buttrick for the
      masterly way with which he put together the big arches of the Government
      warehouses&mdash;a man whom it would have been my pleasure to congratulate
      again to-night had it been possible for him to reach us. To-night I think
      you will all agree with me that this small token, not only of my own, but
      of your 'personal regard and appreciation'&rdquo; (here he opened the box and
      took from it a man's ring set with three jewels), &ldquo;should be given to the
      man who has carried out in so thorough a way the part allotted to him in
      the Corn Exchange, and who is none other than Mr. Garrison Minott, who for&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the sentence was lost in the uproar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry! Garry! Garry Minott!&rdquo; came from all parts of the room. &ldquo;Bully for
      Garry! You deserve it, old man! Three cheers for Garry Minott! Hip...
      Hip...!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morris's voice now dominated the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come this way, Mr. Minott.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The face of the young superintendent, which had been in a broad laugh all
      the evening, grew white and red by turns. Out of pure astonishment he
      could neither move nor speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right&mdash;stay where you are!&rdquo; cried Morris laughing. &ldquo;Pass it up
      to him, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      John Breen sprang from his chair with the alertness of a man who had been
      accustomed to follow his impulse. In his joy over his friend's good
      fortune he forgot his embarrassment, forgot that he was a stranger; forgot
      that he alone, perhaps, was the only young man in the room whose life and
      training had not fitted him for the fullest enjoyment of what was passing
      around him; forgot everything, in fact, but that his comrade, his friend,
      his chum, had won the highest honors his Chief could bestow.
    </p>
    <p>
      With cheeks aflame he darted to Morris's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me hand it to him, sir,&rdquo; he cried, all the love for his friend in his
      eyes, seizing the ring and plunging toward Garry, the shouts increasing as
      he neared his side and placed the prize in his hand. Only then did Minott
      find his breath and his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Morris!&mdash;Why, fellows!&mdash;Why, there's plenty of men in
      the office who have done more than I have to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he sat down, the ring fast in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the applause had subside&mdash;the young fellow's modesty had caused
      a fresh outburst&mdash;Morris again rose in his chair and once more the
      room grew still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twelve o'clock, gentlemen,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Mr. Downey, you are always our
      stand-by in starting the old hymn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The diners&mdash;host and guests alike&mdash;rose to their feet as one
      man. Then to Peter's and my own intense surprise that most impressive of
      all chants, the Doxology in long metre, surged out, gaining in volume and
      strength as its strains were caught up by the different voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the ending of the grand old hymn&mdash;it had been sung with every
      mark of respect by every man in the room&mdash;John Breen walked back to
      his chair, leaned toward Peter, and with an apologetic tone in his voice&mdash;he
      had evidently noticed the unfavorable impression that Garry had made on
      his neighbor&mdash;said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't misjudge Garry, Mr. Grayson; he's the kindest hearted fellow in the
      world when you know him. He's a little rough sometimes, as you can see,
      but he doesn't mean it. He thinks his way of talking and acting is what he
      calls 'up-to-date.'&rdquo; Then he added with a sigh: &ldquo;I wish I had a ring like
      that&mdash;one that I had earned. I tell you, Mr. Grayson, THAT'S
      something worth while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and looked him straight in
      the face, the same look in his eyes that a proud father would have given a
      son who had pleased him. He had heard with delight the boy's defence of
      his friend and he had read the boy's mind as he sang the words of the
      hymn, his face grave, his whole attitude one of devotion. &ldquo;You'd think he
      was in his father's pew at home,&rdquo; Peter had whispered to me with a smile.
      It was the latter outburst though&mdash;the one that came with a sigh&mdash;that
      stirred him most.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you would really have liked a ring yourself, my lad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would I like it! Why, Mr. Grayson, I'd rather have had Mr. Morris give me
      a thing like that and DESERVED IT, than have all the money you could pile
      on this table.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of those sudden smiles which his friends loved so well irradiated
      Peter's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep on the way you're going, my son,&rdquo; he said, seizing the boy's hand, a
      slight tremble in his voice, &ldquo;and you'll get a dozen of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; The boy's eyes were wide in wonderment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By being yourself. Don't let go of your ideals no matter what Minott or
      anybody else says. Let him go his way and do you keep on in yours.
      Don't... but I can't talk here. Come and see me. I mean it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen's eyes glistened. &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow night, at my rooms. Here's my card. And you, too, Mr. Minott&mdash;glad
      to see both of you.&rdquo; Garry has just joined them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks awfully,&rdquo; answered Minott. &ldquo;I'm very sorry, Mr. Grayson, but I'm
      booked for a supper at the Magnolia. Lot of the fellows want to whoop up
      this&mdash;&rdquo; and he held the finger bearing the ring within an inch of
      Peter's nose. &ldquo;And they want you, too, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, please let me have him,&rdquo; Peter urged. Minott, I could see, he did not
      want; Breen he was determined to have.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would love to come, sir, and it's very kind of you to ask me. There's
      to be a dance at my uncle's tomorrow night, though I reckon I can be
      excused. Would you&mdash;would you come to see me instead? I want you to
      see my father's portrait. It's not you, and yet it's like you when you
      turn your head; and there are some other things. I'd like&mdash;&rdquo; Here the
      boy stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter considered for a moment. Calling at the house of a man he did not
      know, even to continue the acquaintance of so charming a young fellow as
      his nephew, was not one of the things punctilious Mr. Grayson&mdash;punctilious
      as to forms of etiquette&mdash;was accustomed to do. The young man read
      his thoughts and added quickly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I'll do just as you say, but if you only would come we will be
      entirely alone and won't see anybody else in the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But couldn't you possibly come to me?&rdquo; Peter urged. The fact that young
      Breen had a suite of rooms so sequestered as to be beyond the reach even
      of a dance, altered the situation to some extent, but he was still
      undecided. &ldquo;I live all alone when my sister is not with me, and I, too,
      have many things I am sure would interest you. Say you'll come now&mdash;I
      shall expect you, shall I not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy hesitated. &ldquo;You may not know exactly what I mean,&rdquo; he said slowly.
      &ldquo;Maybe you can't understand, for everybody about here seems to love you,
      and you must have lots of friends. The fact is, I feel out of everything.
      I get pretty lonely sometimes. Garry, here, never stays five minutes when
      he comes to see me, so many people are after him all the time. Please say
      you'll come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a note in the boy's voice that swept away all the older man's
      scruples.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, my son! Of course I'll come,&rdquo; burst out Peter. &ldquo;I'll be there at
      nine o'clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Morris and the others passed between the table and the wall on their
      way to the cloak-room, Minott, who had listened to the whole conversation,
      waited until he thought Peter had gone ahead, and then, with an impatient
      gesture, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil, Jack, do you want to waste your time over an old fellow
      like that for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Garry, don't&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't! A bald-headed old pill who ought to have&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then the two passed out of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Breakfast&mdash;any meal for that matter&mdash;in the high-wainscoted,
      dark-as-a-pocket dining-room of the successful Wall Street broker&mdash;the
      senior member of the firm of A. Breen &amp; Co., uncle, guardian and
      employer of the fresh, rosy-cheeked lad who sat next to Peter on the night
      of Morris's dinner, was never a joyous function.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room itself, its light shut out by the adjoining extensions, prevented
      it; so did the glimpse of hard asphalt covering the scrap of a yard, its
      four melancholy posts hung about with wire clothes-lines; and so did the
      clean-shaven, smug-faced butler, who invariably conducted his master's
      guests to their chairs with the movement of an undertaker, and who had
      never been known to crack a smile of any kind, long or short, during his
      five years' sojourn with the family of Breen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not that anybody wanted Parkins to crack one, that is, not his master, and
      certainly not his mistress, and most assuredly not his other mistress,
      Miss Corinne, the daughter of the lady whom the successful Wall Street
      broker had made his first and only wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this gloomy atmosphere might have been changed for the better had
      there been a big, cheery open wood fire snapping and blazing away,
      sputtering out its good morning as you entered&mdash;and there would have
      been if any one of the real inmates had insisted upon it&mdash;fought for
      it, if necessary; or if in summer one could have seen through the
      curtained windows a stretch of green grass with here and there a tree, or
      one or two twisted vines craning their necks to find out what was going on
      inside; or if in any or all seasons, a wholesome, happy-hearted, sunny
      wife looking like a bunch of roses just out of a bath, had sat behind the
      smoking coffee-urn, inquiring whether one or two lumps of sugar would be
      enough; or a gladsome daughter who, in a sudden burst of affection, had
      thrown her arms around her father's neck and kissed him because she loved
      him, and because she wanted his day and her day to begin that way:&mdash;if,
      I say, there had been all, or one-half, or one-quarter of these things,
      the atmosphere of this sepulchral interior might have been improved&mdash;but
      there wasn't.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a wife, of course, a woman two years older than Arthur Breen&mdash;the
      relict of a Captain Barker, an army officer&mdash;who had spent her early
      life in moving from one army post to another until she had settled down in
      Washington, where Breen had married her, and where the Scribe first met
      her. But this sharer of the fortunes of Breen preferred her breakfast in
      bed, New York life having proved even more wearing than military
      upheavals. And there was also a daughter, Miss Corinne Barker, Captain and
      Mrs. Barker's only offspring, who had known nothing of army posts, except
      as a child, but who had known everything of Washington life from the time
      she was twelve until she was fifteen, and she was now twenty; but that
      young woman, I regret to say, also breakfasted in bed, where her maid had
      special instructions not to disturb her until my lady's jewelled fingers
      touched a button within reach of her dainty hand; whereupon another
      instalment of buttered rolls and coffee would be served with such
      accessories of linen, porcelain and silver as befitted the appetite and
      station of one so beautiful and so accomplished.
    </p>
    <p>
      These conditions never ceased to depress Jack. Fresh from a life out of
      doors, accustomed to an old-fashioned dining-room&mdash;the living room,
      really, of the family who had cared for him since his father's death,
      where not only the sun made free with the open doors and windows, but the
      dogs and neighbors as well&mdash;the sober formality of this early meal&mdash;all
      of his uncle's meals, for that matter&mdash;sent shivers down his back
      that chilled him to the bone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had looked about him the first morning of his arrival, had noted the
      heavy carved sideboard laden with the garish silver; had examined the
      pictures lining the walls, separated from the dark background of leather
      by heavy gold frames; had touched with his fingers the dial of the solemn
      bronze clock, flanked by its equally solemn candelabra; had peered between
      the steel andirons, bright as carving knives, and into the freshly
      varnished, spacious chimney up which no dancing blaze had ever whirled in
      madcap glee since the mason's trowel had left it and never would to the
      end of time,&mdash;not as long as the steam heat held out; had watched the
      crane-like step of Parkins as he moved about the room&mdash;cold,
      immaculate, impassive; had listened to his &ldquo;Yes, sir&mdash;thank you, sir,
      very good, sir,&rdquo; until he wanted to take him by the throat and shake
      something spontaneous and human out of him, and as each cheerless feature
      passed in review his spirits had sunk lower and lower.
    </p>
    <p>
      This, then, was what he could expect as long as he lived under his uncle's
      roof&mdash;a period of time which seemed to him must stretch out into dim
      futurity. No laughing halloos from passing neighbors through wide-open
      windows; no Aunt Hannahs running in with a plate of cakes fresh from the
      griddle which would cool too quickly if she waited for that slow-coach of
      a Tom to bring them to her young master. No sweep of leaf-covered hills
      seen through bending branches laden with blossoms; no stretch of sky or
      slant of sunshine; only a grim, funereal, artificial formality, as
      ungenial and flattening to a boy of his tastes, education and earlier
      environment as a State asylum's would have been to a red Indian fresh from
      the prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning after Morris's dinner (within eight hours really of the
      time when he had been so thrilled by the singing of the Doxology), Jack
      was in his accustomed seat at the small, adjustable accordion-built table&mdash;it
      could be stretched out to accommodate twenty-four covers&mdash;when his
      uncle entered this room. Parkins was genuflecting at the time with his&mdash;&ldquo;Cream,
      sir,&mdash;yes, sir. Devilled kidney, sir? Thank you, sir.&rdquo; (Parkins had
      been second man with Lord Colchester, so he told Breen when he hired him.)
      Jack had about made up his mind to order him out when a peculiar tone in
      his uncle's &ldquo;Good morning&rdquo; made the boy scan that gentleman's face and
      figure the closer.
    </p>
    <p>
      His uncle was as well dressed as usual, looking as neat and as smart in
      his dark cut-away coat with the invariable red carnation in his
      buttonhole, but the boy's quick eye caught the marks of a certain wear and
      tear in the face which neither his bath nor his valet had been able to
      obliterate. The thin lips&mdash;thin for a man so fat, and which showed,
      more than any other feature, something of the desultory firmness of his
      character&mdash;drooped at the corners. The eyes were half their size, the
      snap all out of them, the whites lost under the swollen lids. His
      greeting, moreover, had lost its customary heartiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were out late, I hear,&rdquo; he grumbled, dropping into his chair. &ldquo;I
      didn't get in myself until two o'clock and feel like a boiled owl. May
      have caught a little cold, but I think it was that champagne of
      Duckworth's; always gives me a headache. Don't put any sugar and cream in
      that coffee, Parkins&mdash;want it straight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; replied the flunky, moving toward the sideboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, Jack, what did you do?&rdquo; he continued, picking up his napkin.
      &ldquo;You and Garry made a night of it, didn't you? Some kind of an artist's
      bat, wasn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir; Mr. Morris gave a dinner to his clerks, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's Morris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the great architect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that fellow! Yes, I know him, that is, I know who he is. Say the
      rest. Parkins! didn't I tell you I didn't want any sugar or cream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Parkins hadn't offered any. He had only forgotten to remove them from the
      tray.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack kept straight on; these differences between the master and Parkins
      were of daily occurrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Uncle Arthur, I met the most wonderful gentleman I ever saw; he
      looked just as if he had stepped out of an old frame, and yet he is down
      in the Street every day and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What firm?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No firm, he is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curbstone man, then?&rdquo; Here Breen lifted the cup to his lips and as
      quickly put it down. &ldquo;Parkins!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; came the monotone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why the devil can't I get my coffee hot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it cold, sir?&rdquo;&mdash;slight modulation, but still lifeless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;IS IT COLD? Of course it's cold! Might have been standing in a morgue.
      Take that down and have some fresh coffee sent up. Servants running o'er
      each other and yet I can't get a&mdash;Go on, Jack! I didn't mean to
      interrupt, but I'll clean the whole lot of 'em out of here if I don't get
      better service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Uncle Arthur, he isn't a banker&mdash;isn't even a broker; he's only
      a paying teller in a bank,&rdquo; continued Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      The older man turned his head and a look of surprise swept over his round,
      fat face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teller in a BANK?&rdquo; he asked in an altered tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, the most charming, the most courteous old gentleman I have ever met;
      I haven't seen anybody like him since I left home, and, just think, he has
      promised to come and see me to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The drooping lips straightened and a shrewd, searching glance shot from
      Arthur Breen's eyes. There was a brain behind this sleepy face&mdash;as
      many of his competitors knew. It was not always in working order, but when
      it was the man became another personality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack&mdash;&rdquo; The voice was now as thin as the drawn lips permitted, with
      caution in every tone, &ldquo;you stop short off. You mustn't cotton to
      everybody you pick up in New York&mdash;it won't do. Get you into trouble.
      Don't bring him here; your aunt won't like it. When you get into a hole
      with a fellow and can't help yourself, take him to the club. That's one of
      the things I got you into the Magnolia for; but don't ever bring 'em
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he's a personal friend of Mr. Morris, and a friend of another friend
      of Mr. Morris's they called 'Major.'&rdquo; It was not the first time he had
      heard such inhospitable suggestions from his uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I know; they've all got some old retainers hanging on that they
      give a square meal to once a year, but don't you get mixed up with 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Parkins had returned by this time and was pouring a fresh cup of coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Parkins, that's something like&mdash;No, I don't want any kidneys&mdash;I
      don't want any toast&mdash;I don't want anything, Parkins&mdash;haven't I
      told you so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; thank you sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Black coffee is the only thing that'll settle this head. What you want to
      do, Jack, is to send that old fossil word that you've got another
      engagement, and... Parkins, is there anything going on here to-night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; Miss Corinne is giving a small dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, Jack&mdash;that's it. That'll let you out with a whole skin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can't, and I won't, Uncle Arthur,&rdquo; he answered in an indignant
      tone. &ldquo;If you knew him as I do, and had seen him last night, you would&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't want to know him and I don't want to see him. You are all
      balled up, I see, and can't work loose, but take him upstairs; don't let
      your aunt come across him or she'll have a fit.&rdquo; Here he glanced at the
      bronze clock. &ldquo;What!&mdash;ten minutes past nine! Parkins, see if my cab
      is at the door.... Jack, you ride down with me. I walked when I was your
      age, and got up at daylight. Some difference, Jack, isn't there, whether
      you've got a rich uncle to look after you or not.&rdquo; This last came with a
      wink.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only one of his pleasantries. He knew he was not rich; not in the
      accepted sense. He might be a small star in the myriads forming the
      Milky-Way of Finance, but there were planets millions of miles beyond him,
      whose brilliancy he was sure he could never equal. The fact was that the
      money which he had accumulated had been so much greater sum than he had
      ever hoped for when he was a boy in a Western State&mdash;his father went
      to Iowa in '49&mdash;and the changes in his finances had come with such
      lightning rapidity (half a million made on a tip given him by a friend,
      followed by other tips more or less profitable) that he loved to pat his
      pride, so to speak, in speeches like this.
    </p>
    <p>
      That he had been swept off his feet by the social and financial rush about
      him was quite natural. His wife, whose early life had been one long
      economy, had ambitions to which there was no limit and her escape from her
      former thraldom had been as sudden and as swift as the upward spring of a
      loosened balloon. Then again all the money needed to make the ascension
      successful was at her disposal. Hence jewels, laces, and clothes; hence
      elaborate dinners, the talk of the town: hence teas, receptions, opera
      parties, week-end parties at their hired country seat on Long Island;
      dances for Corinne; dinners for Corinne; birthday parties for Corinne;
      everything, in fact, for Corinne, from manicures to pug dogs and hunters.
    </p>
    <p>
      His two redeeming qualities were his affection for his wife and his
      respect for his word. He had no child of his own, and Corinne, though
      respectful never showed him any affection. He had sent Jack to a Southern
      school and college, managing meanwhile the little property his father had
      left him, which, with some wild lands in the Cumberland Mountains,
      practically worthless, was the boy's whole inheritance, and of late had
      treated him as if he had been his own son.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to his own affairs, close as he sailed to the wind in his money
      transactions&mdash;so close sometimes that the Exchange had more than once
      overhauled his dealings&mdash;it was generally admitted that when Arthur
      Breen gave his WORD&mdash;a difficult thing often to get&mdash;he never
      broke it. This was offset by another peculiarity with less beneficial
      results: When he had once done a man a service only to find him
      ungrateful, no amount of apologies or atonement thereafter ever moved him
      to forgiveness. Narrow-gauge men are sometimes built that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was to be expected, therefore, considering the quality of Duckworth's
      champagne and the impression made on Jack by his uncle's outburst, that
      the ride down town in the cab was marked by anything but cheerful
      conversation between Breen and his nephew, each of whom sat absorbed in
      his own reflections. &ldquo;I didn't mean to be hard on the boy,&rdquo; ruminated
      Breen, &ldquo;but if I had picked up everybody who wanted to know me, as Jack
      has done, where would I be now?&rdquo; Then, his mind still clouded by the night
      at the club (he had not confined himself entirely to champagne), he began,
      as was his custom, to concentrate his attention upon the work of the day&mdash;on
      the way the market would open; on the remittance a belated customer had
      promised and about which he had some doubt; the meeting of the board of
      directors in the new mining company&mdash;&ldquo;The Great Mukton Lode,&rdquo; in
      which he had an interest, and a large one&mdash;etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked out of the windows, his eyes taking in the remnants of the
      autumnal tints in the Park, now nearly gone, the crowd filling the
      sidewalks; the lumbering stages and the swifter-moving horse-cars crammed
      with eager men anxious to begin the struggle of the day&mdash;not with
      their hands&mdash;that mob had swept past hours before&mdash;but with
      their brains&mdash;wits against wits and the devil take the man who slips
      and falls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing of it all interested him. His mind was on the talk at the
      breakfast table, especially his uncle's ideas of hospitality, all of which
      had appalled and disgusted him. With his father there had always been a
      welcome for every one, no matter what the position in life, the only
      standard being one of breeding and character&mdash;and certainly Peter had
      both. His uncle had helped him, of course&mdash;put him under obligations
      he could never repay. Yet after all, it was proved now to him that he was
      but a guest in the house enjoying only such rights as any other guest
      might possess, and with no voice in the welcome&mdash;a condition which
      would never be altered, until he became independent himself&mdash;a
      possibility which at the moment was too remote to be considered. Then his
      mind reverted to his conversation the night before with Mr. Grayson and
      with this change of thought his father's portrait&mdash;the one that hung
      in his room&mdash;loomed up. He had the night before turned on the lights&mdash;to
      their fullest&mdash;and had scanned the picture closely, eager to find
      some trace of Peter in the counterfeit presentment of the man he loved
      best, and whose memory was still almost a religion, but except that both
      Peter and his father were bald, and that both wore high, old-fashioned
      collars and neck-cloths, he had been compelled to admit with a sigh that
      there was nothing about the portrait on which to base the slightest claim
      to resemblance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet he's like my father, he is, he is,&rdquo; he kept repeating to himself as
      the cab sped on. &ldquo;I'll find out what it is when I know him better.
      To-night when Mr. Grayson comes I'll study it out,&rdquo; and a joyous smile
      flashed across his features as he thought of the treat in store for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When at last the boy reached his office, where, behind the mahogany
      partition with its pigeon-hole cut through the glass front he sat every
      day, he swung back the doors of the safe, took out his books and papers
      and made ready for work. He had charge of the check book, and he alone
      signed the firm's name outside of the partners. &ldquo;Rather young,&rdquo; one of
      them protested, until he looked into the boy's face, then he gave his
      consent; something better than years of experience and discretion are
      wanted where a scratch of a pen might mean financial ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen had preceded him with but a nod to his clerks, and had disappeared
      into his private office&mdash;another erection of ground glass and
      mahogany. Here the senior member of the firm shut the door carefully, and
      turning his back fished up a tiny key attached to a chain leading to the
      rear pocket of his trousers. With this he opened a small closet near his
      desk&mdash;a mere box of a closet&mdash;took from it a squatty-shaped
      decanter labelled &ldquo;Rye, 1840,&rdquo; poured out half a glass, emptied it into
      his person with one gulp, and with the remark in a low voice to himself
      that he was now &ldquo;copper fastened inside and out&rdquo;&mdash;removed all traces
      of the incident and took up his morning's mail.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the circle of chairs facing the huge blackboard in the
      spacious outer office had begun to fill up. Some of the customers, before
      taking their seats, hurried anxiously to the ticker, chattering away in
      its glass case; others turned abruptly and left the room without a word.
      Now and then a customer would dive into Breen's private room, remain a
      moment and burst out again, his face an index of the condition of his bank
      account.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the chatter of the ticker had shifted from the London quotations to
      the opening sales on the Exchange, a sallow-faced clerk mounted a low
      step-ladder and swept a scurry of chalk marks over the huge blackboard,
      its margin lettered with the initials of the principal stocks. The
      appearance of this nimble-fingered young man with his piece of chalk
      always impressed Jack as a sort of vaudeville performance. On ordinary
      days, with the market lifeless, but half of the orchestra seats would be
      occupied. In whirl-times, with the ticker spelling ruin, not only were the
      chairs full, but standing room only was available in the offices.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their occupants came from all classes; clerks from up-town dry-goods
      houses, who had run down during lunch time to see whether U.P. or Erie, or
      St. Paul had moved up an eighth, or down a quarter, since they had
      devoured the morning papers on their way to town; old speculators who had
      spent their lives waiting buzzard-like for some calamity, enabling them to
      swoop down and make off with what fragments they could pick up;
      well-dressed, well-fed club men, who had had a run of luck and who never
      carried less than a thousand shares to keep their hands in; gray-haired
      novices nervously rolling little wads of paper between their fingers and
      thumbs&mdash;up every few minutes to listen to the talk of the ticker, too
      anxious to wait until the sallow-faced young man with the piece of chalk
      could make his record on the board. Some of them had gathered together
      their last dollar. Two per cent. or one percent, or even one-half of one
      per cent. rise or fall was all that stood between them and ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sorry, sir, but you know we told you when you opened the account
      that you must keep your margins up,&rdquo; Breen had said to an old man. The old
      man knew; had known it all night as he lay awake, afraid to tell his wife
      of the sword hanging above their heads. Knew it, too, when without her
      knowledge he had taken the last dollar of the little nest-egg to make good
      the deficit owed Breen &amp; Co. over and above his margins, together with
      some other things &ldquo;not negotiable&rdquo;&mdash;not our kind of collateral but
      &ldquo;stuff&rdquo; that could &ldquo;lie in the safe until he could make some other
      arrangement,&rdquo; the cashier had said with the firm's consent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Queer safe, that of Breen &amp; Co., and queer things went into it. Most
      of them were still there. Jack thought some jeweller had sent part of his
      stock down for safe-keeping when he first came across a tiny drawer of
      which Breen alone kept the key. Each object could tell a story: a pair of
      diamond ear-rings surely could, and so could four pearls on a gold chain,
      and perhaps, too, a certain small watch, the case set with jewels. One of
      these days they may be redeemed, or they may not, depending upon whether
      the owners can scrape money enough together to pay the balances owed in
      cash. But the four pearls on the gold chain are likely to remain there&mdash;that
      poor fellow went overboard one morning off Nantucket Light, and his secret
      went with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the six months Jack had stood at his desk new faces had filled the
      chairs&mdash;the talk had varied; though he felt only the weary monotony
      of it all. Sometimes there had been hours of tense excitement, when even
      his uncle had stood by the ticker, and when every bankable security in the
      box had been overhauled and sent post-haste to the bank or trust company.
      Jack, followed by the porter with a self-cocking revolver in his outside
      pocket, had more than once carried the securities himself, returning to
      the office on the run with a small scrap of paper good for half a million
      or so tucked away in his inside pocket. Then the old monotony had returned
      with its dull routine and so had the chatter and talk. &ldquo;Buy me a hundred.&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Yes, let 'em go.&rdquo; &ldquo;No, I don't want to risk it.&rdquo; &ldquo;What's my balance?&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Thought you'd get another eighth for that stock.&rdquo; &ldquo;Sold at that figure,
      anyhow,&rdquo; etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under these conditions life to a boy of Jack's provincial training and
      temperament seemed narrowed down to an arm-chair, a black-board, a piece
      of chalk and a restless little devil sputtering away in a glass case,
      whose fiat meant happiness or misery. Only the tongue of the demon was in
      evidence. The brain behind it, with its thousand slender nerves quivering
      with the energy of the globe, Jack never saw, nor, for that matter, did
      nine-tenths of the occupants of the chairs. To them its spoken word was
      the dictum of fate. Success meant debts paid, a balance in the bank,
      houses, horses, even yachts and estates&mdash;failure meant obscurity and
      suffering. The turn of the roulette wheel or the roll of a cube of ivory
      they well knew brought the same results, but these turnings they also knew
      were attended with a certain loss of prestige. Taking a flier in the
      Street was altogether different&mdash;great financiers were behind the
      fluctuations of values told by the tongue of the ticker, and behind them
      was the wealth of the Republic and still in the far distance the power of
      the American people. Few of them ever looked below the grease paint, nor
      did the most discerning ever detect the laugh on the clown's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy half hidden by the glass screen, through which millions were
      passed and repassed every month, caught now and then a glimpse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once a faded, white-haired old man had handed Jack a check after banking
      hours to make good an account&mdash;a man whose face had haunted him for
      hours. His uncle told him the poor fellow had &ldquo;run up solid&rdquo; against a
      short interest in a stock that some Croesus was manipulating to get even
      with another Croesus who had manipulated HIM, and that the two Croesuses
      had &ldquo;buried the old man alive.&rdquo; The name of the stock Jack had forgotten,
      but the suffering in the victim's face had made an indelible impression.
      In reply to Jack's further inquiry, his uncle had spoken as if the poor
      fellow had been wandering about on some unknown highway when the accident
      happened, failing to add that he himself had led him through the gate and
      started him on the road; forgetting, too, to say that he had collected the
      toll in margins, a sum which still formed a considerable portion of Breen
      &amp; Co.'s bank account. One bit of information which Breen had
      vouchsafed, while it did not relieve the gloom of the incident, added a
      note of courage to the affair:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was game, however, all the same, Jack. Had to go down into his wife's
      stocking, I hear. Hard hit, but he took it like a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      While all this was going on downtown under the direction of the business
      end of the house of Breen, equally interesting events were taking place
      uptown under the guidance of its social head. Strict orders had been given
      by Mrs. Breen the night before that certain dustings and arrangings of
      furniture should take place, the spacious stairs swept, and the hectic
      hired palms in their great china pots watered. I say &ldquo;the night before,&rdquo;
       because especial stress was laid upon the fact that on no account whatever
      were either Mrs. Breen or her daughter Corinne to be disturbed until noon&mdash;neither
      of them having retired until a late hour the night before.
    </p>
    <p>
      So strictly were these orders carried out that all that did reach the
      younger woman's ear&mdash;and this was not until long after mid-day&mdash;was
      a scrap of news which crept upstairs from the breakfast table via Parkins
      wireless, was caught by Corinne's maid and delivered in manifold with that
      young lady's coffee and buttered rolls. This when deciphered meant that
      Jack was not to be at the dance that evening&mdash;he having determined
      instead to spend his time up stairs with a disreputable old fellow whom he
      had picked up somewhere at a supper the preceding night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne thought over the announcement for a moment, gazed into the
      egg-shell cup that Hortense was filling from the tiny silver coffee-pot,
      and a troubled expression crossed her face. &ldquo;What has come over Jack?&rdquo; she
      asked herself. &ldquo;I never knew him to do anything like this before. Is he
      angry, I wonder, because I danced with Garry the other night? It WAS his
      dance, but I didn't think he would care. He has always done everything to
      please me&mdash;until now.&rdquo; Perhaps the boy was about to slip the slight
      collar he had worn in her service&mdash;one buckled on by him willingly
      because&mdash;though she had not known it&mdash;he was a guest in the
      house. Heretofore she said to herself Jack had been her willing slave, a
      feather in her cap&mdash;going everywhere with her; half the girls were
      convinced he was in love with her&mdash;a theory which she had encouraged.
      What would they say now? This prospect so disturbed the young woman that
      she again touched the button, and again Hortense glided in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hortense, tell Parkins to let me know the moment Mr. John comes in&mdash;and
      get me my blue tea-gown; I sha'n't go out to-day.&rdquo; This done she sank back
      on her pillows.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a slight little body, this Corinne&mdash;blue-eyed, fair-haired,
      with a saucy face and upturned nose. Jack thought when he first saw her
      that she looked like a wren with its tiny bill in the air&mdash;and Jack
      was not far out of the way. And yet she was a very methodical,
      level-headed little wren, with several positive convictions which
      dominated her life&mdash;one of them being that everybody about her ought
      to do, not as they, but as she, pleased. She had begun, and with
      pronounced success, on her mother as far back as she could remember, and
      had then tried her hand on her stepfather until it became evident that as
      her mother controlled that gentleman it was a waste of time to experiment
      further. All of which was a saving of stones without the loss of any
      birds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where she failed&mdash;and she certainly had failed, was with Jack, who
      though punctiliously polite was elusive and&mdash;never quite subdued. Yet
      the discovery made, she neither pouted nor lost her temper, but merely
      bided her time. Sooner or later, she knew, of course, this boy, who had
      seen nothing of city life and who was evidently dazed with all the
      magnificence of the stately home overlooking the Park, would find his
      happiest resting-place beneath the soft plumage of her little wing. And if
      by any chance he should fall in love with her&mdash;and what more natural;
      did not everybody fall in love with her?&mdash;would it not be wiser to
      let him think she returned it, especially if she saw any disposition on
      the young man's part to thwart her undisputed sway of the household?
    </p>
    <p>
      For months she had played her little game, yet to her amazement none of
      the things she had anticipated had happened. Jack had treated her as he
      would any other young woman of his acquaintance&mdash;always with courtesy&mdash;always
      doing everything to oblige her, but never yielding to her sway. He would
      laugh sometimes at her pretensions, just as he would have laughed at
      similar self-assertiveness on the part of any one else with whom he must
      necessarily be thrown, but never by thought, word or deed had he ever
      given my Lady Wren the faintest suspicion that he considered her more
      beautiful, better dressed, or more entertaining, either in song, chirp,
      flight or plumage, than the flock of other birds about her. Indeed, the
      Scribe knows it to be a fact that if Jack's innate politeness had not
      forbidden, he would many times have told her truths, some of them mighty
      unpleasant ones, to which her ears had been strangers since her
      school-girl days.
    </p>
    <p>
      This unstudied treatment, strange to say&mdash;the result really, of the
      boy's indifference&mdash;had of late absorbed her. What she could not have
      she generally longed for, and there was not the slightest question up to
      the present moment that Jack was still afield.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the girl pressed the button of the cord within reach of her hand,
      and for the third time Hortense entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you told Parkins I want to know the very instant Mr. John comes in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Hortense, did you understand that Mr. John was to go out to meet the
      gentleman, or was the gentleman to come to his rooms?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To his rooms, I think, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
<p>
She was wearing her blue tea-gown, stretched out on the cushions
of one of the big divans in the silent drawing-room, when she heard
Jack's night-key touch the lock. Springing to her feet she ran toward
him.
</p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jack, what's this I hear about your not coming to my dance? It isn't
      true, is it?&rdquo; She was close to him now, her little head cocked on one
      side, her thin, silken draperies dripping about her slender figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who told you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parkins told Hortense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leaky Parkins?&rdquo; laughed Jack, tossing his hat on the hall table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are coming, aren't you, Jack? Please do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to-night; you don't need me, Corinne.&rdquo; His voice told her at once
      that not only was the leash gone but that the collar was off as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then please excuse me, for I have an old gentleman coming to pay me a
      visit. The finest old gentleman, by the way, you ever saw! A regular
      thoroughbred, Corinne&mdash;who looks like a magnificent portrait!&rdquo; he
      added in his effort to interest her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But let him come some other time,&rdquo; she coaxed, holding the lapel of his
      coat, her eyes searching his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, turn to the wall a magnificent old portrait!&rdquo; This came with a mock
      grimace, his body bent forward, his eyes brimming with laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be serious, Jack, and tell me if you think it very nice in you to stay
      upstairs in your den when I am giving a dance? Everybody will know you are
      at home, and we haven't enough men as it is. Garry can't come, he writes
      me. He has to dine with some men at the club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really AM sorry, Corinne, but I can't this time.&rdquo; Jack had hold of her
      hand now; for a brief moment he was sorry he had not postponed Peter's
      visit until the next day; he hated to cause any woman a disappointment.
      &ldquo;If it was anybody else I might send him word to call another night, but
      you don't know Mr. Grayson; he isn't the kind of a man you can treat like
      that. He does me a great honor to come, anyhow. Just think of his coming
      to see a boy like me&mdash;and he so&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, bring him downstairs, then.&rdquo; Her eyes began to flash; she had tried
      all the arts she knew&mdash;they were not many&mdash;but they had won
      heretofore. &ldquo;Mother will take care of him. A good many of the girls'
      fathers come for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring him downstairs to a dance!&rdquo; Jack answered with a merry laugh. &ldquo;He
      isn't that kind of an old gentleman, either. Why, Corinne, you ought to
      see him! You might as well ask old Bishop Gooley to lead the german.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's foot was now ready to mount the lower step of the stairs. Corinne
      bit her lip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never do anything to please me!&rdquo; she snapped back. She knew she was
      fibbing, but something must be done to check this new form of independence&mdash;and
      then, now that Garry couldn't come, she really needed him. &ldquo;You don't want
      to come, that's it&mdash;&rdquo; She facing him now, her little nose high in the
      air, her cheeks flaming with anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not say that, Corinne,&rdquo; he answered in a slightly indignant
      tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne drew herself up to her full height&mdash;toes included; not very
      high, but all she could do&mdash;and said in a voice pitched to a high
      key, her finger within a few inches of his nose:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's true, and I will say it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rustle of silk was heard overhead, and a plump, tightly laced woman in
      voluminous furs, her head crowned by a picture hat piled high with plumes,
      was making her way down the stairs. Jack looked up and waved his hand to
      his aunt, and then stood at mock attention, like a corporal on guard, one
      hand raised to salute her as she passed. The boy, with the thought of
      Peter coming, was very happy this afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you two quarrelling about?&rdquo; came the voice. Rather a soft voice
      with a thread of laziness running through it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack's too mean for anything, mother. He knows we haven't men enough
      without him for a cotillion, now that Garry has dropped out, and he's been
      just stupid enough to invite some old man to come and see him this
      evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The furs and picture hat swept down and on, Jack standing at attention,
      hands clasping an imaginary musket his face drawn down to its severest
      lines, his cheeks puffed out to make him look the more solemn. When the
      wren got &ldquo;real mad&rdquo; he would often say she was the funniest thing alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a pig, I know, aunty&rdquo; (here Jack completed his salute with a great
      flourish), &ldquo;but Corinne does not really want me, and she knows it. She
      only wants to have her own way. They don't dance cotillions when they come
      here&mdash;at least they didn't last time, and I don't believe they will
      to-night. They sit around with each other in the corners and waltz with
      the fellows they've picked out&mdash;and it's all arranged between them,
      and has been for a week&mdash;ever since they heard Corinne was going to
      give a dance.&rdquo; The boy spoke with earnestness and a certain tone of
      conviction in his voice, although his face was still radiant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, can't you sit around, too, Jack?&rdquo; remarked his aunt, pausing in her
      onward movement for an instant. &ldquo;I'm sure there will be some lovely
      girls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but they don't want me. I've tried it too often, aunty&mdash;they've
      all got their own set.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's because you don't want to be polite to any of them,&rdquo; snapped Corinne
      with a twist of her body, so as to face him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Corinne, that isn't fair; I am never impolite to anybody in this
      house, but I'm tired of&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Garry isn't tired.&rdquo; This last shot was fired at random.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the aunt poured oil: &ldquo;Come, children, come! Don't let's talk any
      more about it. If Jack has made an engagement it can't be helped, I
      suppose, but don't spoil your party, my dear. Find Parkins, Jack, and send
      him to me.... Ah, Parkins&mdash;if any one calls say I'll be out until six
      o'clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my Lady.&rdquo; Parkins knew on which side his bread was buttered. She had
      reproved him at first, but his excuse was that she was so like his former
      mistress, Lady Colchester, that he sometimes forgot himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      And again &ldquo;my Lady&rdquo; swept on, this time out of the door and into her
      waiting carriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      Jack's impatience increased as the hour for Peter's visit approached.
      Quarter of nine found him leaning over the banisters outside his small
      suite of rooms, peering down between the hand-rails watching the top of
      every head that crossed the spacious hall three flights below&mdash;he
      dare not go down to welcome his guest, fearing some of the girls, many of
      whom had already arrived, would know he was in the house. Fifteen minutes
      later the flash of a bald head, glistening in the glare of the lower hall
      lantern, told him that the finest old gentleman in the world had arrived,
      and on the very minute. Parkins's special instructions, repeated for the
      third time, were to bring Mr. Peter Grayson&mdash;it was wonderful what an
      impressive note was in the boy's voice when he rolled out the syllables&mdash;up
      at once, surtout, straight-brimmed hat, overshoes (if he wore any),
      umbrella and all, and the four foot-falls&mdash;two cat-like and wabbly,
      as befitted the obsequious flunky, and two firm and decided, as befitted a
      grenadier crossing a bridge&mdash;could now be heard mounting the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So here you are!&rdquo; cried Peter, holding out both hands to the overjoyed
      boy&mdash;&ldquo;'way up near the sky. One flight less than my own. Let me get
      my breath, my boy, before I say another word. No, don't worry, only Anno
      Domini&mdash;you'll come to it some day. How delightfully you are
      settled!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had entered the cosey sitting-room and Jack was helping with his
      coat; Parkins, with his nose in the air (he had heard his master's
      criticism), having already placed his hat on a side table and the umbrella
      in the corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will you sit&mdash;in the big chair by the fire or in this long
      straw one?&rdquo; cried the boy, Peter's coat still in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nowhere yet; let me look around a little.&rdquo; One of Peter's tests of a man
      was the things he lived with. &ldquo;Ah! books?&rdquo; and he peered at a row on the
      mantel. &ldquo;Macaulay, I see, and here's Poe: Good, very good&mdash;why,
      certainly it is&mdash;Where did you get this Morland?&rdquo; and again Peter's
      glasses went up. &ldquo;Through that door is your bedroom&mdash;yes, and the
      bath. Very charming, I must say. You ought to live very happily here; few
      young fellows I know have half your comforts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had interrupted him to say that the Morland print was one that he had
      brought from his father's home, and that the books had come from the same
      source, but Peter kept on in his tour around the room. Suddenly he stopped
      and looked steadily at a portrait over the mantel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;your father&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew!&rdquo; cried Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knew! How could any one make a mistake? Fine head. About fifty I should
      say. No question about his firmness or his kindness. Yes&mdash;fine head&mdash;and
      a gentleman, that is best of all. When you come to marry always hunt up
      the grandfather&mdash;saves such a lot of trouble in after life,&rdquo; and one
      of Peter's infectious laughs filled the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think he looks anything like Uncle Arthur? You have seen him, I
      think you said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter scanned the portrait. &ldquo;Not a trace. That may also be a question of
      grandfathers&mdash;&rdquo; and another laugh rippled out. &ldquo;But just be thankful
      you bear his name. It isn't always necessary to have a long line of
      gentlemen behind you, and if you haven't any, or can't trace them, a man,
      if he has pluck and grit, can get along without them; but it's very
      comforting to know they once existed. Now let me sit down and listen to
      you,&rdquo; added Peter, whose random talk had been inspired by the look of
      boyish embarrassment on Jack's face. He had purposely struck many notes in
      order to see which one would echo in the lad's heart, so that his host
      might find himself, just as he had done when Jack with generous impulse
      had sprang from his chair to carry Minott the ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two seated themselves&mdash;Peter in the easy chair and Jack opposite.
      The boy's eyes roamed from the portrait, with its round, grave face, to
      Peter's head resting on the cushioned back, illumined by the light of the
      lamp, throwing into relief the clear-cut lips, little gray side-whiskers
      and the tightly drawn skin covering his scalp, smooth as polished ivory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I like him?&rdquo; asked Peter. He had caught the boy's glances and had read
      his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;and yes. I can't see it in the portrait, but I do in the way you
      move your hands and in the way you bow. I keep thinking of him when I am
      with you. It may, as you say, be a good thing to have a gentleman for a
      father, sir, but it is a dreadful thing, all the same, to lose him just as
      you need him most. I wouldn't hate so many of the things about me if I had
      him to go to now and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me about him and your early life,&rdquo; cried Peter, crossing one leg
      over the other. He knew the key had been struck; the boy might now play on
      as he chose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is very little to tell. I lived in the old home with an aunt after
      my father's death. And went to school and then to college at Hagerstown&mdash;quite
      a small college&mdash;where uncle looked after me&mdash;he paid the
      expenses really&mdash;and then I was clerk in a law office for a while,
      and at my aunt's death about a year ago the old place was sold and I had
      no home, and Uncle Arthur sent for me to come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very decent in him, and you should never forget him for it,&rdquo; and again
      Peter's eyes roamed around the perfectly appointed room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it, sir, and at first the very newness and strangeness of
      everything delighted me. Then I began to meet the people. They were so
      different from those in my part of the country, especially the young
      fellows&mdash;Garry is not so bad, because he really loves his work and is
      bound to succeed&mdash;everybody says he has a genius for architecture&mdash;but
      the others&mdash;and the way they treat the young girls, and what is more
      unaccountable to me is the way the young girls put up with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter had settled himself deeper in his chair, his eyes shaded with one
      hand and looked intently at the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle Arthur is kind to me, but the life smothers me. I can't breathe
      sometimes. Nothing my father taught me is considered worth while here.
      People care for other things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, for instance?&rdquo; Peter's hand never moved, nor did his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why stocks and bonds and money, for instance,&rdquo; laughed Jack, beginning to
      be annoyed at his own tirade&mdash;half ashamed of it in fact. &ldquo;Stocks are
      good enough in their way, but you don't want to live with them from ten
      o'clock in the morning till four o'clock in the afternoon, and then hear
      nothing else talked about until you go to bed. That's why that dinner last
      night made such an impression on me. Nobody said money once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But every one of those men had his own hobby&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but in my uncle's world they all ride one and the same horse. I
      don't want to be a pessimist, Mr. Grayson, and I want you to set me
      straight if I am wrong, but Mr. Morris and every one of those men about
      him were the first men I've seen in New York who appear to me to be doing
      the things that will live after them. What are we doing down-town?
      Gambling the most of us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your life here isn't confined to your uncle and his stock-gambling
      friends. Surely these lovely young girls&mdash;two of them came in with me&mdash;&rdquo;
       and Peter smiled, &ldquo;must make your life delightful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's eyes sought the floor, then he answered slowly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you won't think me a cad, but&mdash;No, I'm not going to say a
      word about them, only I can't get accustomed to them and there's no use of
      my saying that I can. I couldn't treat any girl the way they are treated
      here. And I tell you another thing&mdash;none of the young girls whom I
      know at home would treat me as these girls treat the men they know. I'm
      queer, I guess, but I might as well make a clean breast of it all. I am an
      ingrate, perhaps, but I can't help thinking that the old life at home was
      the best. We loved our friends, and they were welcome at our table any
      hour, day or night. We had plenty of time for everything; we lived out of
      doors or in doors, just as we pleased, and we dressed to suit ourselves,
      and nobody criticised. Why, if I drop into the Magnolia on my way up-town
      and forget to wear a derby hat with a sack coat, or a black tie with a
      dinner-jacket, everybody winks and nudges his neighbor. Did you ever hear
      of such nonsense in your life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy paused as if the memory of some incident in which he was ridiculed
      was alive in his mind. Peter's eyes were still fixed on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on&mdash;I'm listening; and what else hurts you? Pour it all out.
      That's what I came for. You said last night nobody would listen&mdash;I
      will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I hate the sham of it all; the silly social distinctions; the
      fits and starts of hospitality; the dinners given for show. Nothing else
      going on between times; even the music is hired. I want to hear music that
      bubbles out&mdash;old Hannah singing in the kitchen, and Tom, my father's
      old butler, whistling to himself&mdash;and the dogs barking, and the birds
      singing outside. I'm ashamed of myself making comparisons, but that was
      the kind of life I loved, because there was sincerity in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No work?&rdquo; There was a note of sly merriment in the inquiry, but Jack
      never caught it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much. My father was Judge and spent part of the time holding court,
      and his work never lasted but a few hours a day, and when I wanted to go
      fishing or shooting, or riding with the girls, Mr. Larkin always let me
      off. And I had plenty of time to read&mdash;and for that matter I do here,
      if I lock myself up in this room. That low library over there is full of
      my father's books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Peter's voice had a tinge of merriment in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who supported the family?&rdquo; he asked in a lower voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who supported him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The question brought Jack to a full stop. He had been running on, pouring
      out his heart for the first time since his sojourn in New York, and to a
      listener whom he knew he could trust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;his salary, of course,&rdquo; answered Jack in astonishment, after a
      pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;the farm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who worked that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father's negroes&mdash;some of them his former slaves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you any money of your own&mdash;anything your father left you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only enough to pay taxes on some wild lands up in Cumberland County, and
      which I'm going to hold on to for his sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter dropped his shading fingers, lifted his body from the depths of the
      easy chair and leaned forward so that the light fell full on his face. He
      had all the information he wanted now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now let me tell you my story, my lad. It is a very short one. I had
      the same sort of a home, but no father&mdash;none that I remember&mdash;and
      no mother, they both died before my sister Felicia and I were grown up. At
      twelve I left school; at fifteen I worked in a country store&mdash;up at
      daylight and to bed at midnight, often. From twenty to twenty-five I was
      entry clerk in a hardware store; then book-keeper; then cashier in a wagon
      factory; then clerk in a village bank&mdash;then book-keeper again in my
      present bank, and there I have been ever since. My only advantages were a
      good constitution and the fact that I came of gentle people. Here we are
      both alike&mdash;you at twenty&mdash;how old?&mdash;twenty two?... Well,
      make it twenty-two.... You at twenty-two and I at twenty-two seem to have
      started out in life with the same natural advantages, so far as years and
      money go, but with this difference&mdash;Shall I tell you what it is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I worked and loved it, and love it still, and that you are lazy and
      love your ease. Don't be offended&mdash;&rdquo; Here Peter laid his hand on the
      boy's knee. He waited an instant, and not getting any reply, kept on:
      &ldquo;What you want to do is to go to work. It wouldn't have been honorable in
      you to let your father support you after you were old enough to earn your
      own living, and it isn't honorable in you, with your present opinions, to
      live on your uncle's bounty, and to be discontented and rebellious at
      that, for that's about what it all amounts to. You certainly couldn't pay
      for these comforts outside of this house on what Breen &amp; Co. can
      afford to pay you. Half of your mental unrest, my lad, is due to the fact
      that you do not know the joy and comfort to be got out of plain, common,
      unadulterated work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll do anything that is not menial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by 'menial'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, working like a day-laborer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most men who have succeeded have first worked with their hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not my uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not your uncle&mdash;he's an exception&mdash;one among a million, and
      then again he isn't through.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he's worth two million, they say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but he never earned it, and he never worked for it, and he doesn't
      now. Do you want to follow in his footsteps?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;not with all his money.&rdquo; This came in a decided tone. &ldquo;But
      surely you wouldn't want me to work with my hands, would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly should, if necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked at him, and a shade of disappointment crossed his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I COULDN'T do anything menial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There isn't anything menial in any kind of work from cleaning a stable
      up! The menial things are the evasions of work&mdash;tricks by which men
      are cheated out of their just dues.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stock gambling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;sometimes, when the truth is withheld.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what I think; that's what I meant last night when I told you about
      the faro-bank. I laughed over it, and yet I can't see much difference,
      although I have never seen one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I understood, but you were wrong about it. Your uncle bears a very
      good name in the Street. He is not as much to blame as the system. Perhaps
      some day the firm will become real bankers, than which there is no more
      honorable calling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is it wrong to want to fish and shoot and have time to read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is wrong not to do it when you have the time and the money. I like
      that side of your nature. My own theory is that every man should in the
      twenty-four hours of the day devote eight to work, eight to sleep and
      eight to play. But this can only be done when the money to support the
      whole twenty-four hours is in sight, either in wages, or salary, or
      invested securities. More money than this&mdash;that is the surplusage
      that men lock up in their tin boxes, is a curse. But with that you have
      nothing to do&mdash;not yet, anyhow. Now, if I catch your meaning, your
      idea is to go back to your life at home. In other words you want to live
      the last end of your life first&mdash;and without earning the right to it.
      And because you cannot do this you give yourself up to criticising
      everything about you. Getting only at the faults and missing all the finer
      things in life. If you would permit me to advise you&mdash;&rdquo; he still had
      his hand on the lad's knee, searching the soft brown eyes&mdash;&ldquo;I would
      give up finding fault and first try to better things, and I would begin
      right here where you are. Some of the great banking houses which keep the
      pendulum of the world swinging true have grown to importance through just
      such young men as yourself, who were honest and had high ideals and who so
      impressed their own personalities upon everybody about them&mdash;customers
      and employers&mdash;that the tone of the concern was raised at once and
      with it came a world-wide success. I have been thirty years on the Street
      and have watched the rise of half the firms about me, and in every single
      instance some one of the younger men&mdash;boys, many of them&mdash;has
      pulled the concern up and out of a quagmire and stood it on its feet. And
      the reverse is true: half the downfalls have come from those same juniors,
      who thought they knew some short road to success, which half the time was
      across disreputable back lots. Why not give up complaining and see what
      better things you can do? I'm not quite satisfied about your having stayed
      upstairs even to receive me. Your aunt loves society and the daughter&mdash;what
      did you say her name was&mdash;Corinne? Yes, Miss Corinne being young,
      loves to have a good time. Listen! do you hear?&mdash;there goes another
      waltz. Now, as long as you do live here, why not join in it too and help
      out the best you can?&mdash;and if you have anything of your own to offer
      in the way of good cheer, or thoughtfulness, or kindness, or whatever you
      do have which they lack&mdash;or rather what you think they lack&mdash;wouldn't
      it be wiser&mdash;wouldn't it&mdash;if you will permit me, my lad&mdash;be
      a little BETTER BRED to contribute something of your own excellence to the
      festivity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was now Jack's turn to lean back in his chair and cover his face, but
      with two ashamed hands. Not since his father's death had any one talked to
      him like this&mdash;never with so much tenderness and truth and with every
      word meant for his good. All his selfrighteousness, his silly conceit and
      vainglory stood out before him. What an ass he had been. What a coxcomb.
      What a boor, really.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you have me do?&rdquo; he asked, a tone of complete surrender in his
      voice. The portrait and Peter were one and the same! His father had come
      to life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know yet. We'll think about that another time, but we won't do it
      now. I ought to be ashamed of myself for having spoiled your evening by
      such serious talk (he wasn't ashamed&mdash;he had come for that very
      purpose). Now show me some of your books and tell me what you read, and
      what you love best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was out of the chair before he ceased speaking, his heels striking the
      floor, bustling about in his prompt, exact manner, examining the few
      curios and keepsakes on the mantel and tables, running his eyes over the
      rows of bindings lining the small bookcase; his hand on Jack's shoulder
      whenever the boy opened some favorite author to hunt for a passage to read
      aloud to Peter, listening with delight, whether the quotation was old or
      new to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack, suddenly remembering that his guest was standing, tried to lead him
      back to his seat by the fire, but Peter would have none of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;too late. Why, bless me, it's after eleven o'clock! Hear the
      music&mdash;they are still at it. Now I'm going to insist that you go down
      and have a turn around the room yourself; there were such a lot of pretty
      girls when I came in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too late for that, too,&rdquo; laughed Jack, merry once more. &ldquo;Corinne wouldn't
      speak to me if I showed my face now, and then there will be plenty more
      dances which I can go to, and so make it all up with her. I'm not yet as
      sorry as I ought to be about this dance. Your being here has been such a
      delight. May I&mdash;may&mdash;I come and see you some time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's just what you will do, and right away. Just as soon as my dear
      sister Felicia comes down, and she'll be here very soon. I'll send for
      you, never fear. Yes, the right sleeve first, and now my hat and umbrella.
      Ah, here they are. Now, good night, my boy, and thank you for letting me
      come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I dare not go down with you,&rdquo; explained Jack with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes&mdash;I know&mdash;I know. Good night&mdash;&rdquo; and the sharp,
      quick tread of the old man grew fainter and fainter as he descended the
      stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited, craning his head, until he caught a glimpse of the glistening
      head as it passed once more under the lantern, then he went into his room
      and shut the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he followed behind his guest he would have witnessed a little comedy
      which would have gone far in wiping clean all trace of his uncle's
      disparaging remarks of the morning. He would have enjoyed, too, Parkins's
      amazement. As the Receiving Teller of the Exeter Bank reached the hall
      floor the President of the Clearing House&mdash;the most distinguished man
      in the Street and one to whom Breen kotowed with genuflections equalling
      those of Parkins&mdash;accompanied by his daughter and followed by the
      senior partner of Breen &amp; Co., were making their way to the front
      door. The second man in the chocolate livery with the potato-bug waistcoat
      had brought the Magnate's coat and hat, and Parkins stood with his hand on
      the door-knob. Then, to the consternation of both master and servant, the
      great man darted forward and seized Peter's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, my dear Mr. Grayson! This is indeed a pleasure. I didn't see you&mdash;were
      you inside?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;I've been upstairs with young Mr. Breen,&rdquo; replied Peter, with a
      comprehensive bow to Host, Magnate and Magnate's daughter. Then, with the
      grace and dignity of an ambassador quitting a salon, he passed out into
      the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen found his breath first: &ldquo;And you know him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know him!&rdquo; cried the Magnate&mdash;&ldquo;of course I know him! One of the most
      delightful men in New York; and I'm glad that you do&mdash;you're luckier
      than I&mdash;try as I may I can hardly ever get him inside my house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was sitting up for the old fellow when he entered his cosey red room and
      dropped into a chair before the fire. I had seen the impression the young
      man had made upon him at the dinner and was anxious to learn the result of
      his visit. I had studied the boy somewhat myself, noting his bright smile,
      clear, open face without a trace of guile, and the enthusiasm that took
      possession of him when his friend won the prize. That he was outside the
      class of young men about him I could see from a certain timidity of glance
      and gesture&mdash;as if he wanted to be kept in the background. Would the
      old fellow, I wondered, burden his soul with still another charge?
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter was laughing when he entered; he had laughed all the way down-town,
      he told me. What particularly delighted him&mdash;and here he related the
      Portman incident&mdash;was the change in Breen's face when old Portman
      grasped his hand so cordially.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Made of pinchbeck, my dear Major, both of them, and yet how genuine it
      looks on the surface, and what a lot of it is in circulation. Quite as
      good as the real thing if you don't know the difference,&rdquo; and again he
      laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the boy,&rdquo; I asked, &ldquo;was he disappointing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young Breen?&mdash;not a bit of it. He's like all the young fellows who
      come up here from the South&mdash;especially the country districts&mdash;and
      he's from western Maryland, he says. Got queer ideas about work and what a
      gentleman should do to earn his living&mdash;same old talk. Hot-house
      plants most of them&mdash;never amount to anything, really, until they are
      pruned and set out in the cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got any sense?&rdquo; I ventured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not much&mdash;not yet&mdash;but he's got temperament and refinement
      and a ten commandments' code of morals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather rare, isn't it?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;perhaps so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I suppose you are going to take him up and do for him, like the
      others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter picked up the poker and made a jab at the fire; then he answered
      slowly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Major, I can't tell yet&mdash;not positively. But he's certainly
      worth saving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      With the closing of the front door upon the finest Old Gentleman in the
      World, a marked change took place in the mental mechanism of several of
      our most important characters. The head of the firm of Breen &amp; Co. was
      so taken aback that for the moment that shrewdest of financiers was
      undecided as to whether he or Parkins should rush out into the night after
      the departing visitor and bring him back, and open the best in the cellar.
      &ldquo;Send a man out of my house,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;whom Portman couldn't
      get to his table except at rare intervals! Well, that's one on me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lid that covered the upper half of Parkins's intelligence also
      received a jolt; it was a coal-hole lid that covered emptiness, but now
      and then admitted the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Might 'ave known from the clothes 'e wore 'e was no common PUR-son,&rdquo; he
      said to himself. &ldquo;To tell you the truth&mdash;&rdquo; this to the second man in
      the potato-bug waistcoat, when they were dividing between them the bottle
      of &ldquo;Extra Dry&rdquo; three-quarters full, that Parkins had smuggled into the
      pantry with the empty bottles (&ldquo;Dead Men,&rdquo; Breen called them)&mdash;&ldquo;to
      tell you the truth, Frederick, when I took 'is 'at and coat hupstairs 'e
      give me a real start 'e looked that respectable&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As to Jack, not only his mind but his heart were in a whirl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Half the night he lay awake wondering what he could do to follow Peter's
      advice while preserving his own ideals. He had quite forgotten that part
      of the older man's counsel which referred to the dignity of work, even of
      that work which might be considered as menial. If the truth must be told,
      it was his vanity alone which had been touched by the suggestion that in
      him might lay the possibility of reforming certain conditions around him.
      He was willing, even anxious, to begin on Breen &amp; Co., subjecting his
      uncle, if need be, to a vigorous overhauling. Nothing he felt could daunt
      him in his present militant state, upheld, as he felt that he was, by the
      approval of Peter. Not a very rational state of mind, the Scribe must
      confess, and only to be accounted for by the fact that Peter's talk,
      instead of clearing Jack's mind of old doubts, had really clouded it the
      more&mdash;quite as a bottle of mixture when shaken sends its insoluble
      particles whirling throughout the whole.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until the following morning, indeed, that the sediment began to
      settle, and some of the sanity of Peter's wholesome prescription to
      produce a clarifying effect. As long as he, Jack, lived upon his uncle's
      bounty&mdash;and that was really what it amounted it&mdash;he must at
      least try to contribute his own quota of good cheer and courtesy. This was
      what Peter had done him the honor to advise, and he must begin at once if
      he wanted to show his appreciation of the courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      His uncle opened the way:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I didn't know until I saw him go out that he was a friend of Mr.
      Portman's,&rdquo; he said as he sipped his coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither did I. But does it make any difference?&rdquo; answered Jack, flipping
      off the top of his egg.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well I should think so&mdash;about ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent,&rdquo;
       replied the older man emphatically. &ldquo;Let's invite him to dinner, Jack.
      Maybe he'll come to one I'm giving next week and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll ask him&mdash;that is... perhaps, though, you might write him a
      note, uncle, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; interrupted Breen, ignoring the suggestion, &ldquo;when I wanted
      you to take him to the club I didn't know who he was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you did not,&rdquo; echoed Jack, suppressing a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The club! No, not by a damned sight!&rdquo; exclaimed the head of the house of
      Breen. As this latter observation was addressed to the circumambient air,
      and not immediately to Jack, it elicited no response. Although slightly
      profane, Jack was clever enough to read in its tones not only ample
      apology for previous criticisms but a sort of prospective reparation,
      whereupon our generous young gentleman forgave his uncle at once, and
      thought that from this on he might like him the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Parkins came in for a share of Jack's most gracious intentions, and
      though he was as silent as an automaton playing a game of chess, a slight
      crack was visible in the veneer of his face when Jack thanked him for
      having brought Mr. Grayson&mdash;same reverential pronunciation&mdash;upstairs
      himself instead of allowing Frederick or one of the maid-servants to
      perform that service.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for his apologies to Corinne and his aunt for having remained in his
      room after Mr. Grayson's departure, instead of taking part in the last
      hours of the dance&mdash;one o'clock was the exact hour&mdash;these were
      reserved until those ladies should appear at dinner, when they were made
      with so penitential a ring in his voice that his aunt at once jumped to
      the conclusion that he must have been bored to death by the old fellow,
      while Corinne hugged herself in the belief that perhaps after all Jack was
      renewing his interest in her; a delusion which took such possession of her
      small head that she finally determined to send Garry a note begging him to
      come to her at once, on business of the UTMOST IMPORTANCE; two strings
      being better than one, especially when they were to be played each against
      the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the uplifting of the house of Breen &amp; Co., and the possibility
      of so small a tail as himself being able to wag so large a dog as his
      uncle and his partners, that seemed now to be so chimerical an undertaking
      that he laughed when he thought of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      This urbanity of mood was still with him when some days later he dropped
      into the Magnolia Club on his way home, his purpose being to find Garry
      and to hear about the supper which his club friends had given him to
      celebrate his winning of the Morris ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Biffton was keeping watch when Jack swung in with that free stride
      of his that showed more than anything else his muscular body and the way
      he had taken care of and improved it. No dumb-bells or clubs for fifteen
      minutes in the morning&mdash;but astride a horse, his thighs gripping a
      bare-back, roaming the hills day after day&mdash;the kind of outdoor
      experience that hardens a man all over without specializing his biceps or
      his running gear. Little Biff never had any swing to his gait&mdash;none
      that his fellows ever noticed. Biff went in for repose&mdash;sometimes
      hours at a time. Given a club chair, a package of cigarettes and some one
      to talk to him and Biff could be happy a whole afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Breen, old man! Come to anchor.&rdquo; Here he moved back a chair an inch
      or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case toward the
      newcomer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; replied Jack. &ldquo;I've just dropped in to look for Garry Minott.
      Has he been in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Biff was the bulletin-board of the Magnolia club. As he roomed upstairs,
      he could be found here at any hour of the day or night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Biff did not reply at once; there was no use in hurrying&mdash;not about
      anything. Besides, the connection between Biff's ears and his brain was
      never very good. One had to ring him up several times before he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed in
      transmission, helped himself to one of Biff's &ldquo;Specials&rdquo;&mdash;bearing in
      gold letters his name &ldquo;Brent Biffton&rdquo; in full on the rice paper&mdash;dropped
      into the proffered chair and repeated the question:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen Garry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;upstairs. Got a deck in the little room. Been there all
      afternoon. Might go up and butt in. Touch that bell before you go and say
      what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;I won't drink anything, if you don't mind. You heard about
      Garry's winning the prize?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Biffton hadn't moved since he had elongated his foot in search of
      Jack's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the supper;
      he's with Holker Morris, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off upstairs.
      Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever fellow, Minott.
      My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes such a
      lot of time... Funny how a fellow will dress himself.&rdquo; Biffton's sleepy
      eyes were sweeping the Avenue. &ldquo;Pendergast just passed wearing white spats&mdash;A
      month too late for spats&mdash;ought to know better. Touch the bell,
      Breen, and say what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence. Rather a
      damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't touch a bell and
      say what.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack having a certain timidity about &ldquo;butting in&rdquo;&mdash;outsiders didn't
      do such things where he came from&mdash;settled himself into the depths of
      the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish
      his game. From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables
      holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice
      and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond,
      the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the
      Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.
    </p>
    <p>
      This outlook was the most valuable asset the Magnolia possessed. If the
      parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse of
      the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence to
      the member looking over the top of his cocktail that neither the hour or
      the place was propitious. If, however, it swayed to the right or left, or
      better still, was folded tight, then it was equally conclusive that not
      only was the coast clear, but that any number of things might happen,
      either at Tiffany's, or the Academy, or wherever else one of those
      altogether accidental&mdash;&ldquo;Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you-
      here&rdquo; kind of meetings take place&mdash;meetings so delightful in
      themselves because so unexpected.
    </p>
    <p>
      These outlooks, too, were useful in solving many of the social problems
      that afflicted the young men about town; the identity, for instance, of
      the occupant of the hansom who had just driven past, heavily veiled,
      together with her destination and her reason for being out at all; why the
      four-in-hand went up empty and came back with a pretty woman beside the
      &ldquo;Tooler,&rdquo; and then turned up a side street toward the Park, instead of
      taking the Avenue into its confidence; what the young wife of the old
      doctor meant when she waved her hand to the occupant of a third-story
      window, and who lived there, and why&mdash;None of their business, of
      course&mdash;never could be&mdash;but each and every escapade, incident
      and adventure being so much thrice-blessed manna to souls stranded in the
      desert waste of club conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      None of these things interested our hero, and he soon found himself
      listening to the talk at an adjoining table. Topping, a young lawyer,
      Whitman Bunce, a man of leisure&mdash;unlimited leisure&mdash;and one or
      two others, were rewarming some of the day's gossip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had the gall to tell Bob's man he couldn't sleep in linen sheets; had his
      own violet silk ones in his trunk, to match his pajamas. The goat had 'em
      out and half on the bed when Bob came in and stopped him. Awful row, I
      heard, when Mrs. Bob got on to it. He'll never go there again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I heard,&rdquo; broke in Bunce, &ldquo;that she ordered the trap and sent him
      back to the station.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Other bits drifted Jack's way:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why he was waiting at the stage-door and she slipped out somewhere in
      front. Billy was with her, so I heard.... When they got to Delmonico's
      there came near being a scrap.... No.... Never had a dollar on Daisy
      Belle, or any other horse....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Loud laughter was now heard at the end of the hall. A party of young men
      had reached the foot of the stairs and were approaching Biffton and Jack.
      Garry's merry voice led the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still hard at work, are you, Biffy? Why, hello, Jack!&mdash;how long have
      you been here? Morlon, you know Mr. Breen, don't you?&mdash;Yes, of course
      you do&mdash;new member&mdash;just elected. Get a move on that carcass of
      yours, Biffy, and let somebody else get up to that table. Charles, take
      the orders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had shaken everybody's hand by this time, Biffton having moved back a
      foot or two, and the circle had widened so that the poker party could
      reach their cocktails. Garry extended his arm till his hand rested on
      Jack's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing sets me up like a game of poker, old man. Been on the building
      all day. You ought to come up with me some time&mdash;I'll show you the
      greatest piece of steel construction you ever saw. Mr. Morris was all over
      it to-day. Oh, by the way! Did that old chunk of sandstone come up to see
      you last night? What did you say his name was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack repeated Peter's cognomen&mdash;this time without rolling the
      syllables under his tongue&mdash;said that Mr. Grayson had kept his
      promise; that the evening had been delightful, and immediately changed the
      subject. There was no use trying to convert Garry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now tell me about the supper,&rdquo; asked Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that was all right. We whooped it up till they closed the bar and
      then went home with the milk. Had an awful head on me next morning; nearly
      fell off the scaffold, I was so sleepy. How's Miss Corinne? I'm going to
      stop in on my way uptown this afternoon and apologize to her. I have her
      note, but I haven't had a minute to let her know why I didn't come. I'll
      show her the ring; then she'll know why. Saw it, didn't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack hadn't seen it. He had been too excited to look. Now he examined it.
      With the flash of the gems Biffy sat up straight, and the others craned
      their heads. Garry slipped it off his finger for the hundredth time for
      similar inspections, and Jack utilized the pause in the conversation to
      say that Corinne had received the note and that in reply she had vented
      most of her disappointment on himself, a disclosure which sent a cloud
      across Garry's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cocktail hour had now arrived&mdash;one hour before dinner, an hour
      which was fixed by that distinguished compounder of herbs and spirits, Mr.
      Biffton&mdash;and the room began filling up. Most of the members were
      young fellows but a few years out of college, men who renewed their
      Society and club life within its walls; some were from out of town&mdash;students
      in the various professions. Here and there was a man of forty&mdash;one
      even of fifty-five&mdash;who preferred the gayer and fresher life of the
      younger generation to the more solemn conclaves of the more exclusive
      clubs further up and further down town. As is usual in such combinations,
      the units forming the whole sought out their own congenial units and were
      thereafter amalgamated into groups, a classification to be found in all
      clubs the world over. While Biffy and his chums could always be found
      together, there were other less-fortunate young fellows, not only without
      coupon shears, but sometimes without the means of paying their dues&mdash;who
      formed a little coterie of their own, and who valued and used the club for
      what it brought them, their election carrying with it a certain social
      recognition: it also widened one's circle of acquaintances and, perhaps,
      of clients.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of loud talking now struck upon Jack's ear. Something more
      important than the angle of a parasol or the wearing of out-of-date spats
      was engrossing the attention of a group of young men who had just entered.
      Jack caught such expressions as&mdash;&ldquo;Might as well have picked his
      pocket....&rdquo; &ldquo;He's flat broke, anyhow....&rdquo; &ldquo;Got to sell his house, I
      hear....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then came a voice louder than the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's Breen talking to Minott and Biffy. He's in the Street; he'll
      know.... Say, Breen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack rose to his feet and met the speaker half way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you know, Breen, about that scoop in gold stock? Heard anything
      about it? Who engineered it? Charley Gilbert's cleaned out, I hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know anything,&rdquo; said Jack. &ldquo;I left the office at noon and came up
      town. Who did you say was cleaned out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Charley Gilbert. You must know him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know him. What's happened to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Flat broke&mdash;that's what happened to him. Got caught in that gold
      swindle. The stock dropped out of sight this afternoon, I hear&mdash;went
      down forty points.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry crowded his way into the group: &ldquo;Which Mr. Gilbert?&mdash;not
      Charley M., the&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; Sam's just left him. What did he tell you, Sam?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just what you've said&mdash;I hear, too, that he has got to stop on his
      house out in Jersey. Can't finish it and can't pay for what's been done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry gave a low whistle and looked at Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's rough. Mr. Morris drew the plan of Gilbert's house himself. I
      worked on the details.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rough!&rdquo; burst out the first speaker. &ldquo;I should say it was&mdash;might as
      well have burglared his safe. They have been working up this game for
      months, so Charley told me. Then they gave out that the lode had petered
      out and they threw it overboard and everybody with it. They said they
      tried to find Charley to post him, but he was out of town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who tried?&rdquo; asked Jack, with renewed interest, edging his way close to
      the group. It was just as well to know the sheep from the goats, if he was
      to spend the remainder of his life in the Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what we want to know. Thought you might have heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack shook his head and resumed his seat beside Biffy, who had not moved
      or shown the slightest interest in the affair. Nobody could sell Biff any
      gold stock&mdash;nor any other kind of stock. His came on the first of
      every month in a check from the Trust Company.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some moments Jack did not speak. He knew young Gilbert, and he knew
      his young and very charming wife. He had once sat next to her at dinner,
      when her whole conversation had been about this new home and the keen
      interest that Morris, a friend of her father's, had taken in it. &ldquo;Mr.
      Breen, you and Miss Corinne must be among our earliest guests,&rdquo; she had
      said, at which Corinne, who was next to Garry, had ducked her little head
      in acceptance. This was the young fellow, then, who had been caught in one
      of the eddies whirling over the sunken rocks of the Street. Not very
      creditable to his intelligence, perhaps, thought Jack; but, then, again,
      who had placed them there, a menace to navigation?&mdash;and why?
      Certainly Peter could not have known everything that was going on around
      him, if he thought the effort of so insignificant an individual as himself
      could be of use in clearing out obstructions like these.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry noticed the thoughtful expression settling over Jack's face, and
      mistaking the cause called Charles to take the additional orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cheer up&mdash;try a high-ball, Jack. It's none of your funeral. You
      didn't scoop Gilbert; we are the worst sufferers. Can't finish his house
      now, and Mr. Morris is just wild over the design. It's on a ledge of rock
      overlooking the lake, and the whole thing goes together. We've got the
      roof on, and from across the lake it looks as if it had grown there. Mr.
      Morris repeated the rock forms everywhere. Stunning, I tell you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack didn't want any high-ball, and said so. (Biffy didn't care if he
      did.) The boy's mind was still on the scoop, particularly on the way in
      which every one of his fellow-members had spoken of the incident.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horrid business, all of it. Don't you think so, Garry?&rdquo; Jack said after a
      pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not if you keep your eyes peeled,&rdquo; answered Garry, emptying his
      glass. &ldquo;Never saw Gilbert but once, and then he looked to me like a softy
      from Pillowville. Couldn't fool me, I tell you, on a deal like that. I'd
      have had a 'stop order' somewhere. Served Gilbert right; no business to be
      monkeying with a buzz-saw unless he knew how to throw off the belt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack straightened his shoulders and his brows knit. The lines of the
      portrait were in the lad's face now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, maybe it's all right, Garry. My own opinion is that it's no better
      than swindling. Anyway, I'm mighty glad Uncle Arthur isn't mixed up in it.
      You heard what Sam and the other fellows thought, didn't you? How would
      you like to have that said of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry tossed back his head and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Biffy, are you listening to his Reverence, the Bishop of Cumberland? Here
      endeth the first lesson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Biff nodded over his high-ball. He wasn't listening&mdash;discussions of
      any kind bored him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what do you care, Jack, what they say&mdash;what anybody says?&rdquo;
       continued Garry. &ldquo;Keep right on. You are in the Street to make money,
      aren't you? Everybody else is there for the same purpose. What goes up
      must come down. If you don't want to get your head smashed, stand from
      under. The game is to jump in, grab what you can, and jump out, dodging
      the bricks as they come. Let's go up-town, old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neither of the young men was expressing his own views. Both were too young
      and too inexperienced to have any fixed ideas on so vital a subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the old fellow in the snuff-colored coat, black stock and dog-eared
      collar that was behind Jack. If he were alive to-day Jack's view would
      have been his view, and that was the reason why it was Jack's view. The
      boy could no more explain it than he could prove why his eyes were brown
      and his hair a dark chestnut, or why he always walked with his toes very
      much turned out, or made gestures with his hands when he talked. Had any
      of the jury been alive&mdash;and some of them were&mdash;or the
      prosecuting-attorney, or even any one of the old settlers who attended
      court, they could have told in a minute which one of the two young men was
      Judge Breen's son. Not that Jack looked like his father. No young man of
      twenty-two looks like an old fellow of sixty, but he certainly moved and
      talked like him&mdash;and had the same way of looking at things. &ldquo;The
      written law may uphold you, sir, and the jury may so consider, but I shall
      instruct them to disregard your plea. There is a higher law, sir, than
      justice&mdash;a law of mercy&mdash;That I myself shall exercise.&rdquo; The old
      Judge had sat straight up on his bench when he said it, his face
      cast-iron, his eyes burning. The jury brought in an acquittal without
      leaving their seats. There was an outbreak, of course, but the man went
      free. This young offshoot was from the same old stock, that was all; same
      sap in his veins, same twist to his branch; same bud, same blossom and&mdash;same
      fruit.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Garry!
    </p>
    <p>
      Not many years have elapsed since I watched him running in and out of his
      father's spacious drawing-rooms on Fourteenth Street&mdash;the court end
      of town in those days. In the days, I mean, when his father was Collector
      of the Port, and his father's house with its high ceilings, mahogany doors
      and wide hall, and the great dining-room overlooking a garden with a
      stable in the rear. It had not been many years, I say, since the Hon.
      Creighton Minott had thrown wide its doors to whoever came&mdash;that is,
      whoever came properly accredited. It didn't last long, of course. Politics
      changed; the &ldquo;ins&rdquo; became the &ldquo;outs.&rdquo; And with the change came the
      bridging-over period&mdash;the kind of cantilever which hope thrusts out
      from one side of the bank of the swift-flowing stream of adversity in the
      belief that somebody on the other side of the chasm will build the other
      half, and the two form a highway leading to a change of scene and renewed
      prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hospitable Collector continued to be hospitable. He had always taken
      chances&mdash;he would again. The catch-terms of Garry's day, such as
      &ldquo;couldn't fool him,&rdquo; &ldquo;keep your eye peeled,&rdquo; &ldquo;a buzz-saw,&rdquo; etc., etc.,
      were not current in the father's day, but their synonyms were. He knew
      what he was about. As soon as a particular member of the Board got back
      from the other side the Honorable Collector would have the position of
      Treasurer, and then it was only a question of time when he would be
      President of the new corporation. I can see now the smile that lighted up
      his rather handsome face when he told me. He was &ldquo;monkeying with a
      buzz-saw&rdquo; all the same if he did but know it, and yet he always professed
      to follow the metaphor that he could &ldquo;throw off the belt&rdquo; that drove the
      pulley at his own good pleasure and so stop the connecting machinery
      before the teeth of the whirling blade could reach his fingers. Should it
      get beyond his control&mdash;of which there was not the remotest
      possibility&mdash;he would, of course, rent his house, sell his books and
      curtail. &ldquo;In the meantime, my dear fellow, there is some of the old
      Madeira left and a game of whist will only help to drive dull care away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry never whimpered when the crash came. The dear mother died&mdash;how
      patient and uncomplaining she was in all their ups and downs&mdash;and
      Garry was all that was left. What he had gained since in life he had
      worked for; first as office boy, then as draughtsman and then in charge of
      special work, earning his Chief's approval, as the Scribe has duly set
      forth. He got his inheritance, of course. Don't we all get ours? Sometimes
      it skips a generation&mdash;some times two&mdash;but generally we are
      wearing the old gentleman's suit of clothes cut down to fit our small
      bodies, making believe all the time that they are our very own,
      unconscious of the discerning eyes who recognize their cut and origin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry's share of the estate&mdash;and
      he got it all. That is, nothing he could exchange for value received&mdash;no
      houses or lots, or stocks or bonds. It was the INTANGIBLE that proved his
      richest possession, viz.:&mdash;a certain buoyancy of spirits; a cheery,
      optimistic view of life; a winning personality and the power of both
      making and holding friends. With this came another asset&mdash;the
      willingness to take chances, and still a third&mdash;an absolute belief in
      his luck. Down at the bottom of the box littered with old papers, unpaid
      tax bills and protested notes&mdash;all valueless&mdash;was a fourth which
      his father used to fish out when every other asset failed&mdash;a certain
      confidence in the turn of a card.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the virtues and the peccadilloes of their ancestors, we may be sure,
      were not interesting our two young men as they swung up the Avenue arm in
      arm, this particular afternoon, the sidewalks crowded with the fashion of
      the day, the roadway blocked with carriages. Nor did any passing objects
      occupy their attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry's mind was on Corinne, and what he would tell her, and how she would
      look as she listened, the pretty head tucked on one side, her sparkling
      eyes drinking in every word of his story, although he knew she wouldn't
      believe one-half of it. Elusive and irritating as she sometimes was, there
      was really nobody exactly like Miss Corinne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack's mind had resumed its normal tone. Garry's merry laugh and
      good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none of his
      friends had had anything to do with Gilbert's fall. After all, he said to
      himself, as he strode up the street beside his friend, it was &ldquo;none of his
      funeral,&rdquo; none of his business, really. Such things went on every day and
      in every part of the world. Neither was it his Uncle Arthur's. That was
      the most comforting part of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne's voice calling over the banisters: &ldquo;Is that you, Jack?&rdquo; met the
      two young men as they handed their hats to the noiseless Frederick. Both
      craned their necks and caught sight of the Wren's head framed by the
      hand-rail and in silhouette against the oval sky-light in the roof above.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and Garry's here, too. Come down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The patter of little feet grew louder, then the swish of silken skirts,
      and with a spring she was beside them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, don't you say a word, Garry. I'm not going to listen and I won't
      forgive you no matter what you say.&rdquo; She had both of his hands now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but you don't know, Miss Corinne. Has Jack told you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, told me everything; that you had a big supper and everybody stamped
      around the room; that Mr. Morris gave you a ring, or something&rdquo; (Garry
      held up his finger, but she wasn't ready to examine it yet), &ldquo;and that
      some of the men wanted to celebrate it, and that you went to the club and
      stayed there goodness knows how long&mdash;all night, so Mollie Crane told
      me. Paul, her brother, was there&mdash;and you never thought a word about
      your promise to me&rdquo; (this came with a little pout, her chin uplifted, her
      lips quite near his face), &ldquo;and we didn't have half men enough and our
      cotillion was all spoiled. I don't care&mdash;we had a lovely time, even
      if you two men did behave disgracefully. No&mdash;I don't want to listen
      to a thing. I didn't come down to see either of you.&rdquo; (She had watched
      them both from her window as they crossed the street.) &ldquo;What I want to
      know, Jack, is, who is Miss Felicia Grayson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Grayson's sister,&rdquo; burst out Jack&mdash;&ldquo;the old gentleman who
      came to see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That old fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that old fellow&mdash;the most charming&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that remnant!&rdquo; interrupted Garry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Garry&mdash;not that kind of a man at all, but a most delightful old
      gentleman by the name of Mr. Grayson,&rdquo; and Jack's eyes flashed. &ldquo;He told
      me his sister was coming to town. What do you know about her, Corinne?&rdquo; He
      was all excitement: Peter was to send for him when his sister arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing&mdash;that's why I ask you. I've just got a note from her. She
      says she knew mamma when she lived in Washington, and that her brother has
      fallen in love with you, and that she won't have another happy moment&mdash;or
      something like that&mdash;if you and I don't come to a tea she is giving
      to a Miss Ruth MacFarlane; and that I am to give her love to mamma, and
      bring anybody I please with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo; asked Jack. He could hardly restrain his joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think next Saturday&mdash;yes, next Saturday,&rdquo; consulting the letter in
      her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where? At Mr. Grayson's rooms?&rdquo; cried Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, at her brother's, she says. Here, Jack&mdash;you read it. Some
      number in East Fifteenth Street&mdash;queer place for people to live,
      isn't it, Garry?&mdash;people who want anybody to come to their teas. I've
      got a dressmaker lives over there somewhere; she's in Fifteenth Street,
      anyhow, for I always drive there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack devoured the letter. This was what he had been hoping for. He knew
      the old gentleman would keep his word!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, of course you'll go, Corinne?&rdquo; he cried eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I'll do nothing of the kind. I think it's a great piece of
      impudence. I've never heard of her. Because you had her brother upstairs,
      that's no reason why&mdash;But that's just like these people. You give
      them an inch and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's cheeks flushed: &ldquo;But, Corinne! She's offered you a courtesy&mdash;asked
      you to her house, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care; I'm not going! Would you, Garry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The son of the Collector hesitated for a moment. He had his own ideas of
      getting on in the world. They were not Jack's&mdash;his, he knew, would
      never succeed. And they were not exactly Corinne's&mdash;she was too
      particular. The fence was evidently the best place for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would be rather a bore, wouldn't it?&rdquo; he replied evasively, with a laugh.
      &ldquo;Lives up under the roof, I guess, wears a dyed wig, got Cousin Mary Ann's
      daguerreotype on the mantle, and tells you how Uncle Ephraim&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door opened and Jack's aunt swept in. She never walked, or ambled, or
      stepped jauntily, or firmly, or as if she wanted to get anywhere in
      particular; she SWEPT in, her skirts following meekly behind&mdash;half a
      yard behind, sometimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne launched the inquiry at her mother, even before she could return
      Garry's handshake. &ldquo;Who's Miss Grayson, mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Why, my child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, she says she knows you. Met you in Washington.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only Miss Grayson I ever met in Washington, my dear, was an old maid,
      the niece of the Secretary of State. She kept house for him after his wife
      died. She held herself very high, let me tell you. A very grand lady,
      indeed. But she must be an old woman now, if she is still living. What did
      you say her first name was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Corinne took the open letter from Jack's hand. &ldquo;Felicia... Yes, Felicia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does she want?&mdash;money for some charity?&rdquo; Almost everybody
      she knew, and some she didn't, wanted money for some charity. She was
      loosening her cloak as she spoke, Frederick standing by to relieve my lady
      of her wraps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; she's going to give a tea and wants us all to come. She's the sister
      of that old man who came to see Jack the other night, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going to give a tea!&mdash;and the sister of&mdash;Well, then, she
      certainly isn't the Miss Grayson I know. Don't you answer her, Corinne,
      until I find out who she is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you who she is,&rdquo; burst out Jack. His face was aflame now. Never
      had he listened to such discourtesy. He could hardly believe his ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wouldn't help me in the least, my dear Jack; so don't you begin. I am
      the best judge of who shall come to my house. She may be all right, and
      she may not, you can never tell in a city like New York, and you can't be
      too particular. People really do such curious pushing things now-a-days.&rdquo;
       This to Garry. &ldquo;Now serve tea, Parkins. Come in all of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack was on the point of blazing out in indignation over the false
      position in which his friend had been placed when Peter's warning voice
      rang in his ears. The vulgarity of the whole proceeding appalled him, yet
      he kept control of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None for me, please, aunty,&rdquo; he said quietly. &ldquo;I will join you later,
      Garry,&rdquo; and he mounted the stairs to his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Peter was up and dressed when Miss Felicia arrived, despite the early
      hour. Indeed that gay cavalier was the first to help the dear lady off
      with her travelling cloak and bonnet, Mrs. McGuffey folding her veil,
      smoothing out her gloves and laying them all upon the bed in the adjoining
      room&mdash;the one she kept in prime order for Miss Grayson's use.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old fellow was facing the coffee-urn when he told her Jack's story and
      what he himself had said in reply, and how fine the boy was in his
      beliefs, and how well-nigh impossible it was for him to help him,
      considering his environment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dear lady had listened with her eyes fixed on Peter. It was but
      another of his benevolent finds; it had been the son of an old music
      teacher the winter before, and a boy struggling through college last
      spring;&mdash;always somebody who wanted to get ahead in one direction or
      another, no matter how impracticable his ambitions might be. This young
      man, however, seemed different; certain remarks had a true ring. Perhaps,
      after all, her foolish old brother&mdash;foolish when his heart misled him&mdash;might
      have found somebody at last who would pay for the time he spent upon him.
      The name, too, had a familiar sound. She was quite sure the aunt must be
      the same rather over-dressed persistent young widow who had flitted in and
      out of Washington society the last year of her own stay in the capital.
      She had finally married a rich New York man of the same name. So she had
      heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tea to which Jack and Corinne were invited was the result of this
      conversation. Trust Miss Felicia for doing the right thing and in the
      right way, whatever her underlying purpose might be; and then again she
      must look this new protege over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter at once joined in the project. Nothing pleased him so much as a
      function of any kind in which his dear sister was the centre of
      attraction, and this was always the case. Was not Mrs. McGuffey put to it,
      at these same teas, to know what to do with the hats and coats, and the
      long and short cloaks and overshoes, and lots of other things beside&mdash;umbrellas
      and the like&mdash;whenever Miss Felicia came to town? And did not the
      good woman have many of the cards of the former function hidden in her
      bureau drawer to show her curious friends just how grand a lady Miss
      Felicia was? General Waterbury, U.S.A., commanding the Department of the
      East, with headquarters at Governors Island, was one of them. And so were
      Colonel Edgerton, Judge Lambert and Mrs. Lambert; and His Excellency the
      French Ambassador, whom she had known as an attache and who was passing
      through the city and had been overjoyed to leave a card; as well as Sir
      Anthony Broadstairs, who expected to spend a week with her in her quaint
      home in Geneseo, but who had made it convenient to pay his respects in
      Fifteenth Street instead: to say nothing of the Coleridges, Thomases,
      Bordeauxs and Worthingtons, besides any number of people from Washington
      Square, with plenty more from Murray Hill and beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter in his enthusiasm had made a mental picture of a repetition of all
      this and had already voiced it in the suggestion of these and various
      other prominent names, when Miss Felicia stopped him with:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Peter&mdash;No. It's not to be a museum of fossils, but a garden full
      of rosebuds; nobody with a strand of gray hair will be invited. As for the
      lame, the halt and the blind, they can come next week. I've just been
      looking you over, Peter; you are getting old and wrinkled and pretty soon
      you'll be as cranky as the rest of them, and there will be no living with
      you. The Major, who is half your age&rdquo;&mdash;I had come early, as was my
      custom, to pay my respects to the dear woman&mdash;&ldquo;is no better. You are
      both of you getting into a rut. What you want is some young blood pumped
      into your shrivelled veins. I am going to hunt up every girl I know and
      all the boys, including that young Breen you are so wild over, and then
      I'll send for dear Ruth MacFarlane, who has just come North with her
      father to live, and who doesn't know a soul, and nobody over twenty-five
      is to be admitted. So if you and the Major want to come to Ruth's tea&mdash;Ruth's,
      remember; not yours or the Major's, or mine&mdash;you will either have to
      pass the cake or take the gentlemen's hats. Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We heard, and we heard her laugh as she spoke, raising her gold lorgnon to
      her eyes and gazing at us with that half-quizzical look which so often
      comes over her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was older than Peter&mdash;must have been: I never knew exactly. It
      would not have been wise to ask her, and nobody else knew but Peter, and
      he never told. And yet there was no mark of real old age upon her. She and
      Peter were alike in this. Her hair, worn Pompadour, was gray&mdash;an
      honest black-and-white gray; her eyes were bright as needle points; the
      skin slightly wrinkled, but fresh and rosy&mdash;a spare, straight,
      well-groomed old lady of&mdash;perhaps sixty&mdash;perhaps sixty-five,
      depending on her dress, or undress, for her shoulders were still full and
      well rounded. &ldquo;The most beautiful neck and throat, sir, in all Washington
      in her day,&rdquo; old General Waterbury once told me, and the General was an
      authority. &ldquo;You should have seen her in her prime, sir. What the devil the
      men were thinking of I don't know, but they let her go back to Geneseo,
      and there she has lived ever since. Why, sir, at a ball at the German
      Embassy she made such a sensation that&mdash;&rdquo; but then the General always
      tells such stories of most of the women he knows.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was but little left of that kind of beauty. She had kept her figure,
      it is true&mdash;a graceful, easy moving figure, with the waist of a girl;
      well-proportioned arms and small, dainty hands. She had kept, too, her
      charm of manner and keen sense of humor&mdash;she wouldn't have been
      Peter's sister otherwise&mdash;as well as her interest in her friend's
      affairs, especially the love affairs of all the young people about her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her knowledge of men and women had broadened. She read them more easily
      now than when she was a girl&mdash;had suffered, perhaps, by trusting them
      too much. This had sharpened the tip end of her tongue to so fine a point
      that when it became active&mdash;and once in a while it did&mdash;it could
      rip a sham reputation up the back as easily as a keen blade loosens the
      seams of a bodice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter fell in at once with her plan for a &ldquo;Rosebud Tea,&rdquo; in spite of her
      raillery and the threatened possibility of our exclusion, promising not
      only to assist her with the invitations, but to be more than careful at
      the Bank in avoiding serious mistakes in his balances&mdash;so as to be on
      hand promptly at four. Moreover, if Jack had a sweetheart&mdash;and there
      was no question of it, or ought not to be&mdash;and Corinne had another,
      what would be better than bringing them all down together, so that Miss
      Felicia could look them over, and Miss Ruth and the Major could get better
      acquainted, especially Jack and Miss Felicia; and more especially Jack and
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia's proposal having therefore been duly carried out, with a
      number of others not thought of when the tea was first discussed&mdash;including
      some pots of geraniums in the window, red, of course, to match the color
      of Peter's room&mdash;and the freshening up of certain swiss curtains
      which so offended Miss Felicia's ever-watchful eyes that she burst out
      with: &ldquo;It is positively disgraceful, Peter, to see how careless you are
      getting&mdash;&rdquo; At which Mrs. McGuffey blushed to the roots of her hair,
      and washed them herself that very night before she closed her eyes. The
      great day having arrived, I say the tea-table was set with Peter's best,
      including &ldquo;the dearest of silver teapots&rdquo; that Miss Felicia had given him
      for special occasions; the table covered with a damask cloth and all made
      ready for the arrival of her guests. This done, the lady returned to her
      own room, from which she emerged an hour later in a soft gray silk
      relieved by a film of old lace at her throat, blending into the tones of
      her gray hair brushed straight up from her forehead and worn high over a
      cushion, the whole topped by a tiny jewel which caught the light like a
      drop of dew.
    </p>
    <p>
      And a veritable grand dame she looked, and was, as she took her seat and
      awaited the arrival of her guests&mdash;in bearing, in the way she moved
      her head; in the way she opened her fan&mdash;in the selection of the fan
      itself, for that matter. You felt it in the color and length of her
      gloves; the size of her pearl ear rings (not too large, and yet not too
      small), in the choice of the few rings that encircled her slender and now
      somewhat shrunken fingers (one hoop of gold had a history that the old
      French Ambassador could have told if he wanted to, so Peter once hinted to
      me)&mdash;everything she did in fact betrayed a wide acquaintance with the
      great world and its requirements and exactions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other women of her age might of their choice drop into charities, or cats,
      or nephews and nieces, railing against the present and living only in the
      past; holding on like grim death to everything that made it respectable,
      so that they looked for all the world like so many old daguerreotypes
      pulled from the frames. Not so Miss Felicia Grayson of Geneseo, New York.
      Her past was a flexible, india-rubber kind of a past that she stretched
      out after her. She might still wear her hair as she did when the old
      General raved over her, although the frost of many winters had touched it;
      but she would never hold on to the sleeves of those days or the skirts or
      the mantles: Out or in they must go, be puffed, cut bias, or made plain,
      just as the fashion of the day insisted. Oh! a most level-headed,
      common-sense, old aristocrat was Dame Felicia!
    </p>
    <p>
      With the arrival of the first carriage old Isaac Cohen moved his seat from
      the back to the front of his shop, so he could see everybody who got out
      and went in, as well as everybody who walked past and gazed up at the
      shabby old house and its shabbier steps and railings. Not that the shabby
      surroundings ever made any difference whether the guests were &ldquo;carriage
      company&rdquo; or not, to quote good Mrs. McGuffey. Peter would not be Peter if
      he lived anywhere else, and Miss Felicia wouldn't be half so quaint and
      charming if she had received her guests behind a marble or brownstone
      front with an awning stretched to the curbstone and a red velvet carpet
      laid across the sidewalk, the whole patrolled by a bluecoat and two hired
      men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little tailor had watched many such functions before. So had the
      neighbors, who were craning their heads from the windows. They all knew by
      the carriages when Miss Felicia came to town and when she left, and by the
      same token for that matter. The only difference between this reception and
      former receptions, or teas, or whatever the great people upstairs called
      them, was in the ages of the guests; not any gray whiskers and white heads
      under high silk hats, this time; nor any demure or pompous, or gentle, or,
      perhaps, faded old ladies puffing up Peter's stairs&mdash;and they did
      puff before they reached his door, where they handed their wraps to Mrs.
      McGuffey in her brave white cap and braver white apron. Only bright eyes
      and rosy faces today framed in tiny bon nets, and well-groomed young
      fellows in white scarfs and black coats.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if anybody had thought of the shabby surroundings they forgot all
      about it when they mounted the third flight of stairs and looked in the
      door. Not only was Peter's bedroom full of outer garments, and Miss
      Felicia's, too, for that matter&mdash;but the banisters looked like a
      clothes-shop undergoing a spring cleaning, so thickly were the coats slung
      over its hand rail. So, too, were the hall, and the hall chairs, and the
      gas bracket, and even the hooks where Peter hung his clothes to be brushed
      in the morning&mdash;every conceivable place, in fact, wherever an outer
      wrap of any kind could be suspended, poked, or laid flat. That Mrs.
      McGuffey was at her wits' end&mdash;only a short walk&mdash;was evident
      from the way she grabbed my hat and coat and disappeared through a door
      which led to her own apartments, returning a moment later out of breath
      and, I fancied, a little out of temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      And that was nothing to the way in which the owners of all these several
      habiliments were wedged inside. First came the dome of Peter's bald head
      surmounting his merry face, then the top of Miss Felicia's pompadour, with
      its tiny diamond spark bobbing about as she laughed and moved her head in
      saluting her guests and then mobs and mobs of young people packed tight,
      looking for all the world like a matinee crowd leaving a theatre (that is
      when you crane your neck to see over their heads), except that the guests
      were without their wraps and were talking sixteen to the dozen, and as
      merry as they could be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are all here, Major,&rdquo; Peter cried, dragging me inside. It was
      wonderful how young and happy he looked. &ldquo;Miss Corinne, and that loud
      Hullaballoo, Garry Minott, we saw prancing around at the supper&mdash;you
      remember&mdash;Holker gave him the ring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Miss MacFarlane?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth! Turn your head, my boy, and take a look at her. Isn't she a
      picture? Did you ever see a prettier girl in all your life, and one more
      charmingly dressed? Ruth, this is the Major... nothing else... just the
      Major. He is perfectly docile, kind and safe, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;And drives equally well in single or double harness, I suppose,&rdquo;
       laughed the girl, extending her hand and giving me the slightest dip of
      her head and bend of her back in recognition, no doubt, of my advancing
      years and dignified bearing&mdash;in apology, too, perhaps, for her
      metaphor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In SINGLE&mdash;not double,&rdquo; rejoined Peter. &ldquo;He's the sourest,
      crabbedest old bachelor in the world&mdash;except myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again her laugh bubbled out&mdash;a catching, spontaneous kind of laugh,
      as if there were plenty more packed away behind her lips ready to break
      loose whenever they found an opening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Major, you shall have two lumps to sweeten you up,&rdquo; and down went
      the sugar-tongs into the silver bowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here young Breen leaned forward and lifted the bowl nearer to her hand,
      while I waited for my cup. He had not left her side since Miss Felicia had
      presented him, so Peter told me afterward. I had evidently interrupted a
      conversation, for his eyes were still fastened upon hers, drinking in her
      every word and movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is sugar your cure for disagreeable people, Miss MacFarlane?&rdquo; I heard
      him ask under his breath as I stood sipping my tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends on how disagreeable they are,&rdquo; she answered. This came with
      a look from beneath her eyelids.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be all right, then, for you only gave me one lump&mdash;&rdquo; still
      under his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only one! I made a mistake&mdash;&rdquo; Eyes looking straight into Jack's,
      with a merry twinkle gathering around their corners.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I don't need any at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I'm sure you do. Here&mdash;hold your cup, sir; I'll fill it full.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'm going to wait and see what effect one lump has. I'm beginning to
      get pleasant already&mdash;and I was cross as two sticks when I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then she insisted he should have at least three more to make him at
      all bearable, and he said there would be no living with him he would be so
      charming and agreeable, and so the talk ran on, the battledoor and
      shuttlecock kind of talk&mdash;the same prattle that we have all listened
      to dozens of times, or should have listened to, to have kept our hearts
      young. And yet not a talk at all; a play, rather, in which words count for
      little and the action is everything: Listening to the toss of a curl or
      the lowering of an eyelid; answering with a lift of the hand&mdash;such a
      strong brown hand, that could pull an oar, perhaps, or help her over
      dangerous places! Then her white teeth, and the way the head bent; and
      then his ears and how close they lay to his head; and the short, glossy
      hair with the faintest bit of a curl in it. And then the sudden awakening:
      Oh, yes&mdash;it was the sugar Mr. Breen wanted, of course. What was I
      thinking of?
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the game went on, neither of them caring where the ball went so
      that it could be hit again when it came their way.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it was about to stay its flight I ventured in with the remark that
      she must not forget to give my kindest and best to her good father. I
      think she had forgotten I was standing so near.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you know daddy!&rdquo; she cried&mdash;the real girl was shining in her
      eyes now&mdash;all the coquetry had vanished from her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;we worked together on the piers of the big bridge over the
      Delaware; oh, long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't he the very dearest? He promised to come here today, but I know he
      won't. Poor daddy, he gets home so tired sometimes. He has just started on
      the big tunnel and there is so much to do. I have been helping him with
      his papers every night. But when Aunt Felicia's note came&mdash;she isn't
      my real aunt, you know, but I have called her so ever since I was a little
      girl&mdash;daddy insisted on my coming, and so I have left him for just a
      few days. He will be so glad when I tell him I have met one of his old
      friends.&rdquo; There was no question of her beauty, or poise, or her
      naturalness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been a lady all her life, my dear Major, and her mother before her,&rdquo; Miss
      Felicia said when I joined her afterward, and Miss Felicia knew. &ldquo;She is
      not like any of the young girls about, as you can see for yourself. Look
      at her now,&rdquo; she whispered, with an approving nod of her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again my eyes sought the girl. The figure was willowy and graceful; the
      shoulders sloping, the arms tapering to the wrists. The hair was jet black&mdash;&ldquo;Some
      Spanish blood somewhere,&rdquo; I suggested, but the dear lady answered sharply,
      &ldquo;Not a drop; French Huguenot, my dear Major, and I am surprised you should
      have made such a mistake.&rdquo; This black hair parted in the middle, lay close
      to her head&mdash;such a wealth and torrent of it; even with tucking it
      behind her ears and gathering it in a coil in her neck it seemed just
      ready to fall. The face was oval, the nose perfect, the mouth never still
      for an instant, so full was it of curves and twinkles and little quivers;
      the eyes big, absorbing, restful, with lazy lids that lifted slowly and
      lay motionless as the wings of a resting butterfly, the eyebrows full and
      exquisitely arched. Had you met her in mantilla and high-heeled shoes, her
      fan half shading her face, you would have declared, despite Miss Felicia's
      protest, that only the click of the castanets was needed to send her
      whirling to their rhythm. Had she tied that same mantilla close under her
      lovely chin, and passed you with upturned eyes and trembling lips, you
      would have sworn that the Madonna from the neighboring church had strayed
      from its frame in search of the helpless and the unhappy; and had none of
      these disguises been hers, and she had flashed by you in the open some
      bright morning mounted on her own black mare, face aglow, eyes like stars,
      her wonderful hair waving in the wind, you would have stood stock-still in
      admiration, fear gripping your throat, a prayer in your heart for the safe
      home-coming of one so fearless and so beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, too, about her a certain gentleness, a certain disposition to
      be kind, even when her inherent coquetry&mdash;natural in the Southern
      girl&mdash;led her into deep waters; a certain tenderness that made
      friends of even unhappy suitors (and I heard that she could not count them
      on her fingers) who had asked for more than she could give&mdash;a
      tenderness which healed the wound and made lovers of them all for life.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then her Southern speech, indescribable and impossible in cold type.
      The softening of the consonants, the slipping away of the terminals, the
      slurring of vowels, and all in that low, musical voice born out side of
      the roar and crash of city streets and crowded drawing-rooms with each
      tongue fighting for mastery.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this Jack had taken in, besides a thousand other charms visible only
      to the young enthusiast, before he had been two minutes in her presence.
      As to her voice, he knew she was one of his own people when she had
      finished pronouncing his name. Somebody worthwhile had crossed his path at
      last!
    </p>
    <p>
      And with this there had followed, even as he talked to her, the usual
      comparisons made by all young fellows when the girl they don't like is
      placed side by side with the girl they do. Miss MacFarlane was tall and
      Corinne was short; Miss MacFarlane was dark, and he adored dark, handsome
      people&mdash;and Corinne was light; Miss MacFarlane's voice was low and
      soft, her movements slow and graceful, her speech gentle&mdash;as if she
      were afraid she might hurt someone inadvertently; her hair and dress were
      simple to severity. While Corinne&mdash;well, in every one of these
      details Corinne represented the exact opposite. It was the blood! Yes,
      that was it&mdash;it was her blood! Who was she, and where did she come
      from? Would Corinne like her? What impression would this high bred
      Southern beauty make upon the pert Miss Wren, whose little nose had gone
      down a point or two when her mother had discovered, much to her joy, the
      week before, that it was the REAL Miss Grayson and not an imitation Miss
      Grayson who had been good enough to invite her daughter and any of her
      daughter's friends to tea; and it had fallen another point when she
      learned that Miss Felicia had left her card the next day, expressing to
      the potato-bug how sorry she was to hear that the ladies were out, but
      that she hoped it would only be a matter of a few days before &ldquo;she would
      welcome them&rdquo; to her own apartments, or words to that effect, Frederick's
      memory being slightly defective.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in answer to this request that Mrs. Breen, after consulting her
      husband, had written three acceptances before she was willing that
      Frederick should leave it with his own hands in Fifteenth Street&mdash;one
      beginning, &ldquo;It certainly is a pleasure after all these years&rdquo;&mdash;which
      was discarded as being too familiar; another, &ldquo;So good of you, dear Miss
      Grayson,&rdquo; which had a similar fate; and the third, which ran, &ldquo;My daughter
      will be most happy, dear Miss Grayson, to be with you,&rdquo; etc., which was
      finally sealed with the Breen crest&mdash;a four-legged beastie of some
      kind on its hind legs, with a motto explanatory of the promptness of his
      ancestors in times of danger. Even then Corinne had hesitated about
      accepting until Garry said: &ldquo;Well, let's take it in, anyhow&mdash;we can
      skip out if they bore us stiff.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Knowing these things, therefore, and fearing that after all something
      would happen to mar the pleasant relations he had established with Peter,
      and with the honor of his uncle's family in his keeping, so to speak, Jack
      had awaited the arrival of Corinne and Garry with considerable
      trepidation. What if, after all, they should stay away, ignoring the great
      courtesy which this most charming of old ladies&mdash;never had he seen
      one so lovable or distinguished&mdash;had extended to them; and she a
      stranger, too, and all because her brother Peter had asked her to be kind
      to a boy like himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entrance of Corinne and Garry, therefore, into the crowded room half
      an hour after his own had brought a relief to Jack's mind (he had been
      watching the door, so as to be ready to present them), which Miss
      Felicia's gracious salutation only intensified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember your dear mother perfectly,&rdquo; he heard the old lady say as she
      advanced to Corinne and took both her hands. &ldquo;And she was quite lovely.
      And this I am very sure is Mr. Breen's friend, Mr. Minott, who has carried
      off all the honors. I am delighted to see you both. Peter, do you take
      these dear young people and present them to Ruth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two had thereupon squeezed through to Ruth's side; Peter in his formal
      introduction awarding to Garry all the honors to which he was entitled,
      and then Ruth, remembering her duties, said how glad she was to know them;
      and would they have lemon or sugar?&mdash;and Corinne, with a
      comprehensive glance of her rival, declined both, her excuse being that
      she was nearly dead now with the heat and that a cup of tea would finish
      her. Jack had winced when his ears caught the flippant answer, but it was
      nothing to the way in which he shrivelled up when Garry, after shaking
      Miss MacFarlane's hand as if it had been a pump-handle instead of a thing
      so dainty that no boy had a right to touch it except with reverence in his
      heart, had burst out with: &ldquo;Glad to see you. From the South, I hear&mdash;&rdquo;
       as if she was a kangaroo or a Fiji Islander. He had seen Miss MacFarlane
      give a little start at Garry's familiar way of speaking, and had noticed
      how Ruth shrank behind the urn as if she were afraid he would touch her
      again, although she had laughed quite good-naturedly as she answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not very far South; only from Maryland,&rdquo; and had then turned to Jack and
      continued her talk with the air of one not wishing to be further
      interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scribe does not dare to relate what would have become of one so
      sensitive as our hero could he have heard the discussion going on later
      between the two young people when they were backed into one of Peter's
      bookcases and stood surveying the room. &ldquo;Miss MacFarlane isn't at all my
      kind of a girl,&rdquo; Corinne had declared to Garry. &ldquo;Really, I can't see why
      the men rave over her. Pretty?&mdash;yes, sort of so-so; but no style, and
      SUCH clothes! Fancy wearing a pink lawn and a sash tied around her waist
      like a girl at a college commencement&mdash;and as to her hair&mdash;why
      no one has ever THOUGHT of dressing her hair that way for AGES and AGES.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her mind thus relieved, my Lady Wren had made a survey of the rooms,
      wondering what they wanted with so many funny old portraits, and whether
      the old gentleman or his sister read the dusty books, Garry remarking that
      there were a lot of &ldquo;swells&rdquo; among the young fellows, many of whom he had
      heard of but had never met before. This done, the two wedged their way
      out, without ever troubling Peter or Miss Felicia with their good-bys,
      Garry telling Corinne that the old lady wouldn't know they were gone, and
      Corinne adding under her breath that it didn't make any difference to her
      if she did.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      But Jack stayed on.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the atmosphere he had longed for. This, too, was where Peter
      lived. Here were the chairs he sat in, the books he read, the pictures he
      enjoyed. And the well-dressed, well-bred people, the hum of low voices,
      the clusters of roses, the shaded candles, their soft rosy light falling
      on the egg-shell cups and saucers and silver service, and the lovely girl
      dispensing all this hospitality and cheer! Yes, here he could live,
      breathe, enjoy life. Everything was worth while and just as he had
      expected to find it.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the throng grew thick about her table he left Ruth's side, taking the
      opportunity to speak to Peter or Miss Felicia (he knew few others), but he
      was back again whenever the chance offered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't send me away again,&rdquo; he pleaded when he came back for the twentieth
      time, and with so much meaning in his voice that she looked at him with
      wide-open eyes. It was not what he said&mdash;she had been brought up on
      that kind of talk&mdash;it was the way he said it, and the inflection in
      his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been literally starving for somebody like you to talk to,&rdquo; he
      continued, drawing up a stool and settling himself determinedly beside
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For me! Why, Mr. Breen, I'm not a piece of bread&mdash;&rdquo; she laughed.
      &ldquo;I'm just girl.&rdquo; He had begun to interest her&mdash;this brown-eyed young
      fellow who wore his heart on his sleeve, spoke her dialect and treated her
      as if she were a duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are life-giving bread to me, Miss MacFarlane,&rdquo; answered Jack with a
      smile. &ldquo;I have only been here six months; I am from the South, too.&rdquo; And
      then the boy poured out his heart, telling her, as he had told Peter, how
      lonely he got sometimes for some of his own kind; and how the young girl
      in the lace hat and feathers, who had come in with Garry, was his aunt's
      daughter; and how he himself was in the Street, signing checks all day&mdash;at
      which she laughed, saying in reply that nothing would give her greater
      pleasure than a big book with plenty of blank checks&mdash;she had never
      had enough, and her dear father had never had enough, either. But he
      omitted all mention of the faro bank and of the gamblers&mdash;such things
      not being proper for her ears, especially such little pink shells of ears,
      nestling and half hidden in her beautiful hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no knowing how long this absorbing conversation might have
      continued (it had already attracted the attention of Miss Felicia) had not
      a great stir taken place at the door of the outside hall. Somebody was
      coming upstairs; or had come upstairs; somebody that Peter was laughing
      with&mdash;great, hearty laughs, which showed his delight; somebody that
      made Miss Felicia raise her head and listen, a light breaking over her
      face. Then Peter's head was thrust in the door:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here he is, Felicia. Come along, Holker&mdash;I have been wondering&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been wondering what, Peter? That I'd stay away a minute longer than I
      could help after this dear lady had arrived?... Ah, Miss Felicia! Just as
      magnificent and as young as ever. Still got that Marie Antoinette look
      about you&mdash;you ought really&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop that nonsense, Holker, right away,&rdquo; she cried, advancing a step to
      greet him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's all true, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, I tell you; none of your sugar-coated lies. I am seventy if I am a
      day, and look it, and if it were not for these furbelows I would look
      eighty. Now tell me about yourself and Kitty and the boys, and whether the
      Queen has sent you the Gold Medal yet, and if the big Library is finished
      and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whew! what a cross examination. Wait&mdash;I'll draw up a set of
      specifications and hand them in with a new plan of my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will do nothing of the kind! You will draw up a chair&mdash;here,
      right alongside of me, and tell me about Kitty and&mdash;No, Peter, he is
      not going to be taken over and introduced to Ruth for at least five
      minutes. Peter has fallen in love with her, Holker, and I do not blame
      him. One of these young fellows&mdash;there he is still talking to her&mdash;hasn't
      left her side since he put his eyes on her. Now begin&mdash;The Medal?&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Expected by next steamer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Corn Exchange?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All finished but the inside work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kitty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All finished but the outside work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia looked up. &ldquo;Your wife, I mean, you stupid fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know. She would have come with me but her dress didn't arrive in
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia laughed: &ldquo;And the boys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still in Paris&mdash;buying bric-a-brac and making believe they're
      studying architecture and&mdash;But I'm not going to answer another
      question. Attention! Miss Felicia Grayson at the bar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dear lady straightened her back, her face crinkling with merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Present!&rdquo; she replied, drawing down the corners of her mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did you leave home? How long will you stay? Can you come to dinner&mdash;you
      and Methusaleh&mdash;on Wednesday night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I refuse to answer by advice of counsel. As to coming to dinner, I am not
      going anywhere for a week&mdash;then I am coming to you and Kitty, whether
      it is Wednesday or any other night. Now, Peter, take him away. He's so
      puffed up with his Gold Medal he's positively unbearable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this time Jack had been standing beside Ruth. He had heard the stir at
      the door and had seen Holker join Miss Felicia, and while the talk between
      the two lasted he had interspersed his talk to Ruth with accounts of the
      supper, and Garry's getting the ring, to which was added the boy's
      enthusiastic tribute to the architect himself. &ldquo;The greatest man I have
      met yet,&rdquo; he said in his quick, impulsive way. &ldquo;We don't have any of them
      down our way. I never saw one&mdash;nobody ever did. Here he comes with
      Mr. Grayson. I hope you will like him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth made a movement as if to start to her feet. To sit still and look her
      best and attend to her cups and hot water and tiny wafers was all right
      for men like Jack, but not with distinguished men like Mr. Morris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Morris had his hand on her chair before she could move it back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my dear young lady&mdash;you'll please keep your seat. I've been
      watching you from across the room and you make too pretty a picture as
      you are. Tea?&mdash;Not a drop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but it is so delicious&mdash;and I will give you the very biggest
      piece of lemon that is left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;not a drop; and as to lemon&mdash;that's rank poison to me. You
      should have seen me hobbling around with gout only last week, and all
      because somebody at a reception, or tea, or some such plaguey affair, made
      me drink a glass of lemonade. Give it to this aged old gentleman&mdash;it
      will keep him awake. Here, Peter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Up to this moment no word had been addressed to Jack, who stood outside
      the half circle waiting for some sign of recognition from the great man;
      and a little disappointed when none came. He did not know that one of the
      great man's failings was his forgetting the names even of those of his
      intimate friends&mdash;such breaks as &ldquo;Glad to see you&mdash;I remember
      you very well, and very pleasantly, and now please tell me your name,&rdquo;
       being a common occurrence with the great architect&mdash;a failing that
      everybody pardoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter noticed the boy's embarrassment and touched Morris' arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember Mr. Breen, don't you, Holker? He was at your supper that
      night&mdash;and sat next to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morris whirled quickly and held out his hand, all his graciousness in his
      manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly. You took the ring to Minott, of course. Very glad to meet
      you again&mdash;and what did you say his name was, Peter?&rdquo; This in the
      same tone of voice&mdash;quite as if Jack were miles away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Breen&mdash;John Breen,&rdquo; answered Peter, putting his arm on Jack's
      shoulder, to accentuate more clearly his friendship for the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the better, Mr. John Breen&mdash;doubly glad to see you, now that I
      know your name. I'll try not to forget it next time. Breen! Breen! Peter,
      where have I heard that name before? Breen&mdash;where the devil have I&mdash;Oh,
      yes&mdash;I've got it now. Quite a common name, isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack assured him with a laugh that it was; there were more than a hundred
      in the city directory. He wasn't offended at Morris forgetting his name,
      and wanted him to see it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glad to know it; wouldn't like to think you were mixed up in the swindle.
      You ought to thank your stars, my dear fellow, that you got into
      architecture instead of into Wall&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am in&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know&mdash;you're with Hunt&mdash;&rdquo; (another instance of a
      defective memory) &ldquo;and you couldn't be with a better man&mdash;the best in
      the profession, really. I'm talking of some scoundrels of your name&mdash;Breen
      &amp; Co., the firm is&mdash;who, I hear, have cheated one of my clients&mdash;young
      Gilbert&mdash;fine fellow&mdash;just married&mdash;persuaded him to buy
      some gold stock&mdash;Mukton Lode, I think they called it&mdash;and robbed
      him of all he has. He must stop on his house I hear. And now, my dear Miss&mdash;&rdquo;
       here he turned to the young girl&mdash;&ldquo;I really forget&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth,&rdquo; she answered with a smile. She had taken Morris's measure and had
      already begun to like him as much as Jack did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;Miss Ruth&mdash;Now, please, my dear girl, keep on being young
      and very beautiful and very wholesome, for you are every one of these
      things, and I know you'll forgive me for saying so when I tell you that I
      have two strapping young fellows for sons who are almost old enough to
      make love to you. Come, Peter, show me that copy of Tacitus you wrote me
      about. Is it in good condition?&rdquo; They were out of Jack's hearing now,
      Morris adding, &ldquo;Fine type of Southern beauty, Peter. Big design, with
      broad lines everywhere. Good, too&mdash;good as gold. Something about her
      forehead that reminds me of the Italian school. Looks as if Bellini might
      have loved her. Hello, Major! What are you doing here all by yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack stood transfixed!
    </p>
    <p>
      Horror, anger, humiliation over the exposure (it was unheard, if he had
      but known it, by anyone in the room except Peter and himself) rushed over
      him in hot concurrent waves. It was his uncle, then, who had robbed young
      Gilbert! The Mukton Lode! He had handled dozens of the certificates, just
      as he had handled dozens of others, hardly glancing at the names. He
      remembered overhearing some talk one day in which his uncle had taken
      part. Only a few days before he had sent a bundle of Mukton certificates
      to the transfer office of the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a chill struck him full in the chest and he shivered to his
      finger-tips. Had Ruth heard?&mdash;and if she had heard, would she
      understand? In his talk he had given her his true self&mdash;his standards
      of honor&mdash;his beliefs in what was true and worth having. When she
      knew all&mdash;and she must know&mdash;would she look upon him as a fraud?
      That his uncle had been accused of a shrewd scoop in the Street did not
      make his clerk a thief, but would she see the difference?
    </p>
    <p>
      All these thoughts surged through his mind as he stood looking into her
      eyes, her hand in his while he made his adieux. He had determined, before
      Morris fired the bomb which shattered his hopes, to ask if he might see
      her again, and where, and if there could be found no place fitting and
      proper, she being motherless and Miss Felicia but a chaperon, to write her
      a note inviting her to walk up through the Park with him, and so on into
      the open where she really belonged. All this was given up now. The best
      thing for him was to take his leave as quietly as possible, without
      committing her to anything&mdash;anything which he felt sure she would
      repudiate as soon as she learned&mdash;if she did not know already&mdash;how
      undesirable an acquaintance John Breen, of Breen &amp; Co., was, etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to his uncle's share in the miserable transaction, there was but one
      thing to do&mdash;to find out, and from his own lips, if possible, if the
      story were true, and if so to tell him exactly what he thought of Breen
      &amp; Co. and the business in which they were engaged. Peter's advice was
      good, and he wished he could follow it, but here was a matter in which his
      honor was concerned. When this side of the matter was presented to Mr.
      Grayson he would commend him for his course of action. To think that his
      own uncle should be accused of a transaction of this kind&mdash;his own
      uncle and a Breen! Could anything be more horrible!
    </p>
    <p>
      So sudden was his departure from the room&mdash;just &ldquo;I must go now; I'm
      so grateful to you all for asking me, and I've had such a good&mdash;Good-by&mdash;&rdquo;
       that Miss Felicia looked after him in astonishment, turning to Peter with:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what's the matter with the boy? I wanted him to dine with us. Did
      you say anything to him, Peter, to hurt his feelings?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter shook his head. Morris, he knew, was the unconscious culprit, but
      this was not for his sister's or Ruth's ears&mdash;not, at least, until he
      could get at the exact facts for himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is as sensitive as a plant,&rdquo; continued Peter; &ldquo;he closes all up at
      times. But he is genuine, and he is sincere&mdash;that's better than
      poise, sometimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, maybe Ruth has offended him,&rdquo; suggested Miss Felicia. &ldquo;No&mdash;she
      couldn't. Ruth, what have you done to young Mr. Breen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl threw back her head and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he went off as if he had been shot from a gun. That is not like him
      at all, I should say, from what I have seen of him. Perhaps I should have
      looked after him a little more. I tried once, but I could not get him away
      from you. His manner is really charming when he talks, and he is so
      natural and so well bred; not at all like his friend, of whom he seems to
      think so much. How did you like him, dear Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't know.&rdquo; She knew, but she didn't intend to tell anybody. &ldquo;He's
      very shy and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;And very young.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And very much of a gentleman,&rdquo; broke in Peter in a decided tone. None
      should misunderstand the boy if he could help it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Ruth laughed. Neither of them had touched the button which had rung
      up her sympathy and admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he is a gentleman. He couldn't be anything else. He is from
      Maryland, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X
    </h2>
    <p>
      Reference has been made in these pages to a dinner to be given in the
      house of Breen to various important people, and to which Mr. Peter
      Grayson, the honored friend of the distinguished President of the Clearing
      House, was to be invited. The Scribe is unable to say whether the
      distinguished Mr. Grayson received an invitation or not. Breen may have
      thought better of it, or Jack may have discouraged it after closer
      acquaintance with the man who had delighted his soul as no other man
      except his father had ever done&mdash;but certain it is that he was not
      present, and equally certain is it that the distinguished Mr. Portman was,
      and so were many of the directors of the Mukton Lode, not to mention
      various others&mdash;capitalists whose presence would lend dignity to the
      occasion and whose names and influence would be of inestimable value to
      the future of the corporation.
    </p>
    <p>
      As fate would have it the day for assuaging the appetites of these
      financial magnates was the same that Miss Felicia had selected for her tea
      to Ruth, and the time at which they were to draw up their chairs but two
      hours subsequent to that in which Jack, crushed and humiliated by his
      uncle's knavery, had crept downstairs and into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this frame of mind the poor boy had stopped at the Magnolia in the hope
      of finding Garry, who must, he thought, have left Corinne at home, and
      then retraced his steps to the club. He must explode somewhere and with
      someone, and the young architect was the very man he wanted. Garry had
      ridiculed his old-fashioned ideas and had advised him to let himself go.
      Was the wiping out of Gilbert's fortune part of the System? he asked
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he hunted through the rooms, almost deserted at this hour, his eyes
      searching for his friend, a new thought popped into his head, and with
      such force that it bowled him over into a chair, where he sat staring
      straight in front of him. Tonight, he suddenly remembered, was the night
      of the dinner his uncle was to give to some business friends&mdash;&ldquo;A
      Gold-Mine Dinner,&rdquo; his aunt had called it. His cheeks flamed again when he
      thought that these very men had helped in the Mukton swindle. To interrupt
      them, though, at their feast&mdash;or even to mention the subject to his
      uncle while the dinner was in progress&mdash;was, of course, out of the
      question. He would stay where he was; dine alone, unless Garry came in,
      and then when the last man had left his uncle's house he would have it out
      with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Biffton was the only man who disturbed his solitude. Biffy was in full
      evening dress&mdash;an enormous white carnation in his button-hole and a
      crush hat under his arm. He was booked for a &ldquo;Stag,&rdquo; he said with a yawn,
      or he would stay and keep him company. Jack didn't want any company&mdash;certainly
      not Biffy&mdash;most assuredly not any of the young fellows who had asked
      him about Gilbert's failure. What he wanted was to be left alone until
      eleven o'clock, during which time he would get something to eat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner over, he buried himself in a chair in the library and let his mind
      roam. Angry as he was, Ruth's image still haunted him. How pretty she was&mdash;how
      gracefully she moved her arm as she lifted the cups; and the way the hair
      waved about her temples; and the tones of her voice&mdash;and dear Peter,
      so kind and thoughtful of him, so careful that he should be introduced to
      this and that person; and Miss Felicia! What a great lady she was; and yet
      he was not a bit afraid of her. What would they all think of him when the
      facts of his uncle's crime came to their ears, and they MUST come sooner
      or later. What, too, would Peter think of him for breaking out on his
      uncle, which he firmly intended to do as soon as the hour hand reached
      eleven? Nor would he mince his words. That an outrage of this kind could
      be committed on an unsuspecting man was bad enough, but that it should
      have taken place in his own uncle's office, bringing into disrepute his
      father's and his own good name, was something he could not tolerate for a
      moment. This he intended saying to his uncle in so many plain words; and
      so leaving our hero with his soul on fire, his mind bent on inflammables,
      explosives, high-pressures&mdash;anything in fact that once inserted under
      the solid body of the senior Breen would blow that gentleman into space&mdash;we
      will betake ourselves to his palatial home. The dinner being an important
      one, no expense had been spared.
    </p>
    <p>
      All day long boys in white aprons had sprung from canvas-covered wagons,
      dived in Arthur Breen's kitchen and dived out again after depositing
      various eatables, drinkables and cookables&mdash;among them six pair of
      redheads, two saddles of mutton, besides such uncanny things as mushrooms,
      truffles and the like, all of which had been turned over to the chef, who
      was expressly engaged for the occasion, and whose white cap&mdash;to quote
      Parkins&mdash;&ldquo;Gives a hair to the scullery which reminded him more of
      'ome than anything 'e 'ad seen since 'e left 'is lordship's service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs more wonderful things had been done. The table of the sepulchral
      dining-room was transformed into a bed of tulips, the mantel a parterre
      of flowers, while the sideboard, its rear packed with the family silver,
      was guarded by a row of bottles of various sizes, shapes and colors;
      various degrees of cob webbed shabbiness, too&mdash;containing the
      priceless vintages which the senior member of the firm of Breen &amp; Co.
      intended to set before his friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, as the dinner hour approached, all the gas jets were ablaze; not
      only the side lights in the main hall, and the overhead lantern which had
      shed its rays on Peter's bald head, but the huge glass chandelier hung in
      the middle of the satin-upholstered drawing room, as well as the
      candelabra on the mantel with their imitation wax candles and brass wicks&mdash;everything, in fact, that could add to the brilliancy of the occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this, despite the orderly way in which the millionaire's house was
      run, had developed a certain nervous anxiety in the host himself, the
      effect of which had not yet worn off, although but a few minutes would
      elapse before the arrival of the guests. This was apparent in the rise and
      fall of Breen's heels, as he seesawed back and forth on the hearth-rug in
      the satin-lined drawing-room, with his coattails spread to the lifeless
      grate, and from the way he glanced nervously at the mirror to see that his
      cravat was properly tied and that his collar did not ride up in the back.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only calm person in the house was the ex-widow. With the eyes of a
      major-general sweeping the field on the eve of an important battle, she
      had taken in the disposition of the furniture, the hang of the curtains
      and the placing of the cushions and lesser comforts. She had also arranged
      with her own hands the masses of narcissus and jonquils on the mantels,
      and had selected the exact shade of yellow tulips which centred the
      dining-room table. It was to be a &ldquo;Gold-Mine Dinner,&rdquo; so Arthur had told
      her, &ldquo;and everything must be in harmony.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then seeing Parkins, who had entered unexpectedly and caught her in the
      act (it is bad form for a hostess to arrange flowers in some houses&mdash;the
      butler does that), she asked in an indifferent tone: &ldquo;And how many are we
      to have for dinner, Parkins?&rdquo; She knew, of course, having spent an hour
      over a diagram placing the guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fourteen, my lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fourteen!&mdash;really, quite a small affair.&rdquo; And with the air of one
      accustomed all her life to banquets in palaces of state, she swept out of
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only time she betrayed herself was just before the arrival of the
      guests, when her mind reverted to her daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Portmans are giving a ball next week, Arthur, and I want Corinne to
      go. Are you sure he is coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't worry, Kitty, Portman's coming; and so are the Colonel, and
      Crossbin, and Hodges, and the two Chicago directors, and Mason, and a lot
      more. Everybody's coming, I tell you. If Mukton Lode doesn't sit up and
      take notice with a new lease of life after tonight, I'm a Dutchman. Run,
      there's the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The merciful Scribe will spare the reader the details incident upon the
      arrival of the several guests. These dinners are all alike: the
      announcements by the butler; the passing of the cocktails on a wine tray;
      the standing around until the last man has entered the drawing-room; the
      perfunctory talk&mdash;the men who have met before hobnobbing instantly
      with each other, the host bearing the brunt of the strangers; the saunter
      into the dining-room, the reading of cards, and the &ldquo;Here you are, Mr.
      Portman, right alongside Mr. Hodges. And Crossbin, you are down there
      somewhere&rdquo;; the spreading of napkins and squaring of everybody's elbow as
      each man drops into his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither will the reader be told of the various dishes or their
      garnishings. These pages have so far been filled with little else beside
      eating and drinking, and with reason, too, for have not all the great
      things in life been begun over some tea-table, carried on at a luncheon,
      and completed between the soup and the cordials? Kings, diplomats and
      statesmen have long since agreed that for baiting a trap there is nothing
      like a soup, an entree and a roast, the whole moistened by a flagon of
      honest wine. The bait varies when the financier or promoter sets out to
      catch a capitalist, just as it does when one sets out to catch a mouse,
      and yet the two mammals are much alike&mdash;timid, one foot at a time,
      nosing about to find out if any of his friends have had a nibble; scared
      at the least disturbing echo&mdash;then the fat, toothsome cheese looms up
      (Breen's Madeira this time), and in they go.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if fuller description of this special bait be omitted, there is no
      reason why that of the baiters and the baited should be left out of the
      narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Colonel Purviance, of the Chesapeake Club, for one&mdash;a
      big-paunched man who always wore, summer and winter, a reasonably white
      waistcoat and a sleazy necktie; swore in a loud voice and dropped his g's
      when he talked. &ldquo;Bit 'em off,&rdquo; his friends said, as he did the end of his
      cigars. He had, in honor of the occasion so contrived that his black coat
      and trousers matched this time, while his shoestring tie had been replaced
      by a white cravat. But the waistcoat was of the old pattern and the top
      button loose, as usual. The Colonel earned his living&mdash;and a very
      comfortable one it was&mdash;by promoting various enterprises&mdash;some
      of them rather shady. He had also a gift for both starting and maintaining
      a boom. Most of the Mukton stock owned by the Southern contingent had been
      floated by him. Another of his accomplishments was his ability to label
      correctly, with his eyes shut, any bottle of Madeira from anybody's
      cellar, and to his credit, be it said, he never lied about the quality, be
      it good, bad or abominable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next to him sat Mason, from Chicago&mdash;a Westerner who had made his
      money in a sudden rise in real estate, and who had moved to New York to
      spend it: an out-spoken, common-sense, plain man, with yellow eyebrows,
      yellow head partly bald, and his red face blue specked with powder marks
      due to a premature blast in his mining days. Mason couldn't tell the best
      Tiernan Madeira from corner-grocery sherry, and preferred whiskey at any
      and all hours&mdash;and what was more, never assumed for one instant that
      he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came Hodges, the immaculately dressed epicure&mdash;a pale,
      clean-shaven, eye-glassed, sterilized kind of a man with a long neck and
      skinny fingers, who boasted of having twenty-one different clarets stored
      away under his sidewalk which were served to ordinary guests, and five
      special vintages which he kept under lock and key, and which were only
      uncorked for the elect, and who invariably munched an olive before
      sampling the next wine. Then followed such lesser lights, as Nixon, Leslie
      and the other guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      A most exacting group of bons vivants, these. The host had realized it and
      had brought out his best. Most of it, to be sure, had come from Beaver
      Street, something &ldquo;rather dry, with an excellent bouquet,&rdquo; the crafty
      salesman with gimlet eyes had said; but, then, most of the old Madeira
      does come from Beaver Street, except Portman's, who has a fellow with a
      nose and a palate hunting the auction rooms for that particular Sunset of
      1834 which had lain in old Mr. Grinnells cellar for twenty-two years; and
      that other of 1839, once possessed by Colonel Purviance, a wine which had
      so sharpened the Colonel's taste that he was always uncomfortable when
      dining outside of his club or away from the tables of one or two experts
      like himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      These, then, were the palates to which Breen catered. Back of them lay
      their good-will and good feeling; still back of them, again, their bank
      accounts and&mdash;another scoop in Mukton! Most of the guests had had a
      hand in the last deal and they were ready to share in the next. Although
      this particular dinner was supposed to be a celebration of the late
      victory, two others, equally elaborate, had preceded it; both Crossbin and
      Hodges having entertained nearly this same group of men at their own
      tables. That Breen, with his reputation for old Madeira and his supposed
      acquaintance with the intricacies of a Maryland kitchen, would outclass
      them both, had been whispered a dozen times since the receipt of his
      invitation, and he knew it. Hence the alert boy, the chef in the white
      cap, and hence the seesawing on the hearth-rug.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like it, Crossbin?&rdquo; asked Breen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Parkins had just passed down the table with a dust covered bottle which he
      handled with the care of a collector fingering a peachblow vase. The
      precious fluid had been poured into that gentleman's glass and its
      contents were now within an inch of his nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment was too grave for instant reply; Mr. Crossbin was allowing the
      aroma to mount to the innermost recesses of his nostrils. It had only been
      a few years since he had performed this same trick with a gourd suspended
      from a nail in his father's back kitchen, overlooking a field of growing
      corn; but that fact was not public property&mdash;not here in New York.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;smooth, and with something of the hills in it. Chateau Lamont,
      is it not, of '61?&rdquo; It was Chateau of something-or-other, and of some
      year, but Breen was too wise to correct him. He supposed it was Chateau
      Lafitte&mdash;that is, he had instructed Parkins to serve that particular
      wine and vintage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Either '61 or '63,&rdquo; replied Breen with the air of positive certainty.
      (How that boy in the white apron, who had watched the boss paste on the
      labels, would have laughed had he been under the table.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Further down the cloth Hodges, the epicure, was giving his views as to the
      proper way of serving truffles. A dish had just passed, with an
      underpinning of crust. Hodges's early life had qualified him as an expert
      in cooking, as well as in wines: Ten years in a country store swapping
      sugar for sausages and tea for butter and eggs; five more clerk in a
      Broadway cloth house, with varied boarding-house experiences (boiled
      mutton twice a week, with pudding on Sundays); three years junior partner,
      with a room over Delmonico's; then a rich wife and a directorship in a
      bank (his father-in-law was the heaviest depositor); next, one year in
      Europe and home, as vice-president, and at the present writing president
      of one of the certify-as-early-as-ten-o'clock-in-the-morning kind of
      banks, at which Peter would so often laugh. With these experiences there
      came the usual blooming and expanding&mdash;all the earlier life forgotten, really ignored. Soon the food of the country became unbearable.
      Even the canvasbacks must feed on a certain kind of wild celery; the
      oysters be dredged from a particular cove, and the terrapin drawn from
      their beds with the Hodges' coat of arms cut in their backs before they
      would be allowed a place on the ex-clerk's table.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is no wonder, then, that everybody listened when the distinguished
      epicure launched out on the proper way to both acquire and serve so rare
      and toothsome a morsel as a truffle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine come by every steamer,&rdquo; Hodges asserted in a positive tone&mdash;not
      to anybody in particular, but with a sweep of the table to attract enough
      listeners to make it worthwhile for him to proceed. &ldquo;My man is aboard
      before the gang-plank is secure&mdash;gets my package from the chief
      steward and is at my house with the truffles within an hour. Then I at
      once take proper care of them. That is why my truffles have that peculiar
      flavor you spoke of, Mr. Portman, when you last dined at my house. You
      remember, don't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Portman nodded. He did not remember&mdash;not the truffles. He recalled
      some white port&mdash;but that was because he had bought the balance of
      the lot himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where do they come from?&rdquo; inquired Mason, the man from Chicago. He wanted
      to know and wasn't afraid to ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All through France. Mine are rooted near a little village in the Province
      of Perigord.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What roots 'em?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hogs&mdash;trained hogs. You are familiar, of course, with the way they
      are secured?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mason&mdash;plain man as he was&mdash;wasn't familiar with anything
      remotely connected with the coralling of truffles, and said so. Hodges
      talked on, his eye resting first on one and then another of the guests,
      his voice increasing in volume whenever a fresh listener craned his neck,
      as if the information was directed to him alone&mdash;a trick of Hodges'
      when he wanted an audience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now a word of caution,&rdquo; he continued; &ldquo;some thing that most of you
      may not know&mdash;always root on a rainy day&mdash;sunshine spoils their
      flavor&mdash;makes them tough and leathery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kind of hog got anything to do with the taste?&rdquo; asked Mason in all
      sincerity. He was learning New York ways&mdash;a new lesson each day, and
      intended to keep on, but not by keeping his mouth shut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing whatever,&rdquo; replied Hodges. &ldquo;They must never be allowed to bite
      them, of course. You can wound a truffle as you can everything else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mason looked off into space and the Colonel bent his ear. Purviance's diet
      had been largely drawn from his beloved Chesapeake, and &ldquo;dug-up dead
      things&rdquo;&mdash;as he called the subject under discussion&mdash;didn't
      interest him. He wanted to laugh&mdash;came near it&mdash;then he suddenly
      remembered how important a man Hodges might be and how necessary it was to
      give him air space in which to float his pet balloons and so keep him well
      satisfied with himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mason, the Chicago man, had no such scruples. He had twice as much money
      as Hodges, four times his digestion and ten times his commonsense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send that dish back here, Breen,&rdquo; Mason cried out in a clear voice&mdash;so
      loud that Parkins, winged by the shot, retraced his steps. &ldquo;I want to see
      what Mr. Hodges is talking about. Never saw a truffle that I know of.&rdquo;
       Here he turned the bits of raw rubber over with his fork. &ldquo;No. Take it
      away. Guess I'll pass. Hog saw it first; he can have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hodges's face flushed, then he joined in the laugh. The Chicago man was
      too valuable a would-be subscriber to quarrel with. And, then, how
      impossible to expect a person brought up as Mason had been to understand
      the ordinary refinements of civilization.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rough diamond, Mason&mdash;Good fellow. Backbone of our country,&rdquo; Hodges
      whispered to the Colonel, who was sore from the strain of repressed
      hilarity. &ldquo;A little coarse now and then&mdash;but that comes of his early
      life, no doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hodges waited his chance and again launched out; this time it was upon the
      various kinds of wines his cellar contained&mdash;their cost&mdash;who had
      approved of them&mdash;how impossible it was to duplicate some of them,
      especially some Johannesburg of '74.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forty-two dollars a bottle&mdash;not pressed in the ordinary way&mdash;just
      the weight of the grapes in the basket in which they are gathered in the
      vineyard, and what naturally drips through is caught and put aside,&rdquo; etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen winced. First his truffles were criticised, and now his pet
      Johannesburg that Parkins was pouring into special glasses&mdash;cooled to
      an exact temperature&mdash;part of a case, he explained to Nixon, who sat
      on his right, that Count Mosenheim had sent to a friend here. Something
      must be done to head Hodges off or there was no telling what might happen.
      The Madeira was the thing. He knew that was all right, for Purviance had
      found it in Baltimore&mdash;part of a private cellar belonging some time
      in the past to either the Swan or Thomas families&mdash;he could not
      remember which.
    </p>
    <p>
      The redheads were now in order, with squares of fried hominy, and for the
      moment Hodges held his peace. This was Nixon's opportunity, and he made
      the most of it. He had been born on the eastern shore of Maryland and was
      brought up on canvasbacks, soft-shell crabs and terrapin&mdash;not to
      mention clams and sheepshead. Nixon therefore launched out on the habits
      of the sacred bird&mdash;the crimes committed by the swivel-gun in the
      hands of the marketmen, the consequent scarcity of the game and the near
      approach of the time when the only rare specimens would be found in the
      glass cases of the museums, ending his talk with a graphic description of
      the great wooden platters of boiling-hot terrapin which were served to
      passengers crossing to Norfolk in the old days. The servants would split
      off the hot shell&mdash;this was turned top side down, used as a dish and
      filled with butter, pepper and salt, into which toothsome bits of the
      reptile, torn out by the guests' forks, were dipped before being eaten.
    </p>
    <p>
      The talk now caromed from birds, reptiles and fish to guns and tackles,
      and then to the sportsmen who used them, and then to the millionaires who
      owned the largest shares in the ducking clubs, and so on to the stock of
      the same, and finally to the one subject of the evening&mdash;the one
      uppermost in everybody's thoughts which so far had not been touched upon&mdash;the
      Mukton Lode. There was no question about the proper mechanism of the traps&mdash;the
      directors were attending to that; the quality of the bait, too, seemed all
      that could be desired&mdash;that was Breen's part. How many mice were
      nosing about was the question, and of the number how many would be inside
      when the spring snapped?
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel, after a nod of his head and a reassuring glance from his
      host, took full charge of the field, soaring away with minute accounts of
      the last inspection of the mine. He told how the &ldquo;tailings&rdquo; at Mukton City
      had panned out 30 per cent, to the ton&mdash;with two hundred thousand
      tons in the dump thrown away until the new smelter was started and they
      could get rid of the sulphides; of what Aetna Cobb's Crest had done and
      Beals Hollow and Morgan Creek&mdash;all on the same ridge, and was about
      launching out on the future value of Mukton Lode when Mason broke the
      silence by asking if any one present had heard of a mine somewhere in
      Nevada which an Englishman had bought and which had panned out $1,200 to
      the ton the first week and not a cent to the square mile ever afterward?
      The Chicago man was the most important mouse of the lot, and the tone of
      his voice and his way of speaking seemed fraught with a purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen leaned forward in rapt attention, and even Hodges and Portman (both
      of them were loaded to the scuppers with Mukton) stopped talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Slickest game I ever heard of,&rdquo; continued Mason. &ldquo;Two men came into town&mdash;two
      poor prospectors, remember&mdash;ran across the Englishman at the hotel&mdash;told
      the story of their claim: 'Take it or leave it after you look it over,'
      they said. Didn't want but sixty thousand for it; that would give them
      thirty thousand apiece, after which they'd quit and live on a ranch. No,
      they wouldn't go with him to inspect the mine; there was the map. He
      couldn't miss it; man at the hotel would drive him out there. There was,
      of course, a foot of snow on the ground, which was frozen hard, but they
      had provided for that and had cut a lot of cord-wood, intending to stay
      till spring. The Englishman could have the wood to thaw out the ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Englishman went and found everything as the two prospectors had said;
      thawed out the soil in half a dozen places; scooped up the dirt and every
      shovelful panned out about twelve hundred to the ton. Then he came back
      and paid the money; that was the last of it. Began to dig again in the
      spring&mdash;and not a trace of anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was the matter?&rdquo; asked Breen. So far his interest in mines had been
      centred on the stock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the same old swindle,&rdquo; said Mason, looking around the table, a grim
      smile on his face&mdash;&ldquo;only in a different way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it salted?&rdquo; called out a man from the lower end of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Mason; &ldquo;not the mine, but the cord-wood. The two poor
      prospectors had bored auger holes in each stick, stuffed 'em full of gold
      dust and plugged the openings. It was the ashes that panned out $1,200 to
      the ton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mason was roaring, as were one or two about him. Portman looked grave, and
      so did Breen. Nothing of that kind had ever soiled their hands; everything
      with them was open and above-board. They might start a rumor that the Lode
      had petered out, throw an avalanche of stock on the market, knock it down
      ten points, freezing out the helpless (poor Gilbert had been one of them),
      buy in what was offered and then declare an extra dividend, sending the
      stock skyward, but anything so low as&mdash;&ldquo;Oh, very reprehensible&mdash;scandalous
      in fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hodges was so moved by the incident that he asked Breen if he would not
      bring back that Madeira (it had been served now in the pipe-stem glasses
      which had been crossed in finger-bowls). This he sipped slowly and
      thoughtfully, as if the enormity of the crime had quite appalled him.
      Mason was no longer a &ldquo;rough diamond,&rdquo; but an example of what a &ldquo;Western
      training will sometimes do for a man,&rdquo; he whispered under his breath to
      Crossbin.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the departure of the last guest&mdash;one or two of them were a
      little unsteady; not Mason, we may be sure&mdash;Jack, who had come home
      and was waiting upstairs in his room for the feast to be over, squared his
      shoulders, threw up his chin and, like many another crusader bent on
      straightening the affairs of the world, started out to confront his uncle.
      His visor was down, his lance in rest, his banner unfurled, the scarf of
      the blessed damosel tied in double bow-knot around his trusty right arm.
      Both knight and maid were unconscious of the scarf, and yet if the truth
      be told it was Ruth's eyes that had swung him into battle. Now he was
      ready to fight; to renounce the comforts of life and live on a crust
      rather than be party to the crimes that were being daily committed under
      his very eyes!
    </p>
    <p>
      His uncle was in the library, having just bowed out his last guest, when
      the boy strode in. About him were squatty little tables holding the
      remnants of the aftermath of the feast&mdash;siphons and decanters and the
      sample boxes of cigars&mdash;full to the lid when Parkins first passed
      them (why fresh cigars out of a full box should have a better flavor than
      the same cigars from a half-empty one has always been a mystery to the
      Scribe).
    </p>
    <p>
      That the dinner had been a success gastronomically, socially and
      financially, was apparent from the beatific boozy smile that pervaded
      Breen's face as he lay back in his easy-chair. To disturb a reverie of
      this kind was as bad as riding rough-shod over some good father digesting
      his first meal after Lent, but the boy's purpose was too lofty to be
      blunted by any such considerations. Into the arena went his glove and out
      rang his challenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I have got to say to you, Uncle Arthur, breaks my heart, but you
      have got to listen to me! I have waited until they were all gone to tell
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen laid his glass on the table and straightened himself in his chair.
      His brain was reeling from the wine he had taken and his hand unsteady,
      but he still had control of his arms and legs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, out with it! What's it all about, Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard this afternoon that my friend Gilbert was ruined in our office.
      The presence of these men to-night makes me believe it to be true. If it
      is true, I want to tell you that I'll never enter the office again as long
      as I live!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen's eyes flashed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll never enter!... What the devil is the matter with you, Jack!&mdash;are
      you drunk or crazy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither! And I want to tell you, sir, too, that I won't be pointed out as
      having anything to do with such a swindling concern as the Mukton Lode
      Company. You've stopped the work on Gilbert's house&mdash;Mr. Morris told
      me so&mdash;you've&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The older man sprang from his seat and lunged toward the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop it!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Now&mdash;quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and you've just given a dinner to the very men who helped steal
      his money, and they sat here and laughed about it! I heard them as I came
      in!&rdquo; The boy's tears were choking him now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn't I tell you to stop, you idiot!&rdquo; His fist was within an inch of
      Jack's nose: &ldquo;Do you want me to knock your head off? What the hell is it
      your business who I invite to dinner&mdash;and what do you know about
      Mukton Lode? Now you go to bed, and damn quick, too! Parkins, put out the
      lights!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so ended the great crusade with our knight unhorsed and floundering in
      the dust. Routed by the powers of darkness, like many another gallant
      youth in the old chivalric days, his ideals laughed at, his reforms
      flouted, his protests ignored&mdash;and this, too, before he could fairly
      draw his sword or couch his lance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI
    </h2>
    <p>
      That Jack hardly closed his eyes that night, and that the first thing he
      did after opening them the next morning was to fly to Peter for comfort
      and advice, goes without saying. Even a sensible, well-balanced young man&mdash;and
      our Jack, to the Scribe's great regret, is none of these&mdash;would have
      done this with his skin still smarting from an older man's verbal
      scorching&mdash;especially a man like his uncle, provided, of course, he
      had a friend like Peter within reach. How much more reasonable, therefore,
      to conclude that a man so quixotic as our young hero would seek similar
      relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the correctness of the details of this verbal scorching, so minutely
      described in the preceding chapter, should the reader ask how it is
      possible for the Scribe to set down in exact order the goings-on around a
      dinner-table to which he was not invited, as well as the particulars of a
      family row where only two persons participated&mdash;neither of whom was
      himself&mdash;and this, too, in the dead of night, with the outside doors
      locked and the shades and curtains drawn&mdash;he must plead guilty
      without leaving the prisoner's dock.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet he asks in all humility&mdash;is the play not enough?&mdash;or
      must he lift the back-drop and bring into view the net-work of pulleys and
      lines, the tanks of moonlight gas and fake properties of papier-mache that
      produce the illusion? As a compromise would it not be the better way after
      this for him to play the Harlequin, popping in and out at the unexpected
      moment, helping the plot here and there by a gesture, a whack, or a
      pirouette; hobnobbing with Peter or Miss Felicia, and their friends;
      listening to Jack's and Ruth's talk, or following them at a distance,
      whenever his presence might embarrass either them or the comedy?
    </p>
    <p>
      This being agreed upon, we will leave our hero this bright morning&mdash;the
      one succeeding the row with his uncle&mdash;at the door of Peter's bank,
      confident that Jack can take care of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the confidence is not misplaced. Only once did the boy's glance waver,
      and that was when his eyes sought the window facing Peter's desk. Some egg
      other than Peter's was nesting on the open ledger spread out on the
      Receiving Teller's desk&mdash;not an ostrich egg of a head at all, but an
      evenly parted, well-combed, well-slicked brown wig, covering the careful
      pate of one of the other clerks who, in the goodness of his heart, was
      filling Peter's place for the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everybody being busy&mdash;too busy to answer questions outside of
      payments and deposits&mdash;Patrick, the porter, must necessarily conduct
      the negotiations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sur; he's not down to-day&mdash;&rdquo; was the ever-watchful Patrick's
      answer to Jack's anxious inquiry. &ldquo;His sister's come from the country and
      he takes a day off now and thin when she's here. You'll find him up at his
      place in Fifteenth Street, I'm thinkin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack bit his lip. Here was another complication. Not to find Peter at the
      Bank meant a visit to his rooms&mdash;on his holiday, too&mdash;and when
      he doubtless wished to be alone with Miss Felicia. And yet how could he
      wait a moment longer? He himself had sent word to the office of Breen
      &amp; Co. that he would not be there that day&mdash;a thing he had never
      done before&mdash;nor did he intend to go on the morrow&mdash;not until he
      knew where he stood. While his uncle had grossly misunderstood him, and,
      for that matter, grossly insulted him, he had neither admitted nor denied
      the outrage on Gilbert.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he did&mdash;this question had only now begun to loom up&mdash;where
      would he go and what would he do? There was but little money due him at
      the office&mdash;and none would come&mdash;until the next month's pay&mdash;hardly
      enough, in any event, to take him back to his Maryland home, even if that
      refuge were still open to him. What then would become of him? Peter was,
      in fact, his main and only reliance. Peter he must see, and at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not that he wavered or grew faint at heart when he thought of his defeat
      the night before. He was only thinking of his exit and the way to make it.
      &ldquo;Always take your leave like a gentleman,&rdquo; was one of his father's maxims.
      This he would try his best to accomplish.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. McGuffey, in white cap and snow-white apron, now that Miss Felicia
      had arrived, was the medium of communication this time:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, they are both in&mdash;this way, sir, and let me have your hat
      and coat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a delightful party that greeted the boy. Peter was standing on the
      hearth-rug with his back to the fire, his coat-tails hooked over his
      wrists. Miss Felicia sat by a small table pretending to sew. Holker Morris
      was swallowed up in one of Peter's big easy-chairs, only the top of his
      distinguished head visible, while a little chub of a man, gray-haired,
      spectacled and plainly dressed, was seated behind him, the two talking in
      an undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Breen!&mdash;why, my dear boy!&mdash;And you have a holiday, too?
      How did you know I was home?&rdquo; cried Peter, extending both hands in the joy
      of his greeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stopped at the Bank, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you?&mdash;and who told you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The janitor, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the good Patrick! Well, well! Holker, you remember young Breen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Holker did remember, for a wonder, and extended one hand to prove it, and
      Felicia&mdash;but the boy was already bending over her, all his respect
      and admiration in his eyes. The little chub of a man was now on his feet,
      standing in an attentive attitude, ready to take his cue from Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, my boy, turn this way, and let me introduce you to my very dear
      friend, Mr. Isaac Cohen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A pudgy hand was thrust out and the spectacled little man, his eyes on the
      boy, said he was glad to know any friend of Mr. Grayson, and resuming his
      seat continued his conversation in still lower tones with the great
      architect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack stood irresolute for an instant, not knowing whether to make some
      excuse for his evidently inopportune visit and return later, or to keep
      his seat until the others had gone. Miss Felicia, who had not taken her
      gaze from the lad since he entered the room, called him to her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, tell me what you are all doing at home, and how your dear aunt is,
      and&mdash;Miss Corinne, isn't it? And that very bright young fellow who
      came with you at Ruth's tea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the last subject that Jack wanted to discuss, but he stumbled
      through it as best he could, and ended in hoping, in a halting tone, that
      Miss MacFarlane was well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth! Oh, she is a darling! Didn't you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack blushed to the roots of his hair, but Miss Felicia's
      all-comprehensive glance never wavered. This was the young man whom Ruth
      had been mysterious about. She intended to know how far the affair had
      gone, and it would have been useless, she knew, for Jack to try to deceive
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All our Southern girls are lovely,&rdquo; he answered in all sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you like them better than the New York belles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know any.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then that means that you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do like them better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy thought for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and Miss MacFarlane best of all; she is so&mdash;so&mdash;&rdquo; the boy
      faltered&mdash;&ldquo;so sincere, and just the kind of girl you would trust with
      anything. Why, I told her all about myself before I'd known her half an
      hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, she was greatly pleased.&rdquo; The match-making instinct was always
      uppermost in Miss Felicia's moves, and then, again, this young man had
      possibilities, his uncle being rich and he being his only nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then she told you!&rdquo; The boy's heart gave a great leap. Perhaps, after
      all, Ruth had not heard&mdash;at all events she did not despise him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I told her myself. The only thing that seemed to worry Ruth was that
      you had not told her enough. If I remember right, she said you were very
      shy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she did not say anything about&mdash;&rdquo; Jack stopped. He had not
      intended to put the question quite in this way, although he was still in
      doubt. Give this keen-eyed, white-haired old lady but an inkling of what
      was uppermost in his mind and he knew she would have its every detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About what?&rdquo; Here Miss Felicia's eyes were suddenly diverted, and became
      fastened on the short figure of Mr. Isaac Cohen, who had risen to his feet
      and stood talking in the most confidential way with Morris&mdash;Peter
      listening intently. Such phrases as &ldquo;Better make the columns of marble,&rdquo;
       from Morris, and, &ldquo;Well, I will talk it over with the Rabbi,&rdquo; from the
      tailor, reached his ears. Further relief came when Miss Felicia rose from
      her chair with her hand extended to Morris, who was already taking leave
      of Peter and all danger was passed when host and hostess conducted the
      tailor and the architect to the door; Morris bending over Miss Felicia's
      hand and kissing it with the air of a courtier suddenly aroused by the
      appearance of royalty (he had been completely immersed in Cohen's talk),
      and the tailor bowing to her on his way out without even so much as
      touching the tips of her fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, my dear Breen,&rdquo; said Peter, when he had adjusted his cravat before
      the glass and brushed a few stray hairs over his temples, &ldquo;that's a man it
      would do you an immense amount of good to know; the kind of a man you call
      worthwhile. Not only does he speak three languages, Hebrew being one of
      them, but he can talk on any subject from Greek temples to the raising of
      violets. Morris thinks the world of him&mdash;So do I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I heard him say something about columns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;then you overheard! Yes, they are for the new synagogue that
      Morris is building. Cohen is chairman of the committee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he is the banker, too, I suppose?&rdquo; rejoined Jack, in a tone which
      showed his lack of interest in both man and subject. It was Peter's ear he
      wanted, and at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man's eyes twinkled: &ldquo;Banker!&mdash;not a bit of it. He's a
      tailor, my dear boy&mdash;a most delightful gentleman tailor, who works in
      the basement below us and who only yesterday pressed the coat I have on.&rdquo;
       Here Peter surveyed himself with a comprehensive glance. &ldquo;All the
      respectable people in New York are not money mad.&rdquo; Then, seeing Jack's
      look of astonishment over the announcement, he laid his hand on the boy's
      shoulder and said with a twinkle of his eye and a little laugh: &ldquo;Only one
      tailor&mdash;not nine&mdash;my boy, was required to make Mr. Cohen a man.
      And now about yourself. Why are you not at work? Old fellows like me once
      in a while have a holiday&mdash;but young fellows! Come!&mdash;What is it
      brings you here during business hours? Anything I can help you in?&mdash;anything
      at home?&rdquo; and Peter's eyes bored holes in the boy's brain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack glanced at Miss Felicia, who was arranging the roses Morris had
      brought her, and then said in a half whisper: &ldquo;I have had a row with my
      uncle, sir. Maybe I had better come some other day, when&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;out with it! Row with your uncle, eh? Rows with one's uncles are
      too commonplace to get mysterious over, and, then, we have no secrets. Ten
      chances to one I shall tell Felicia every word you say after you've gone,
      so she might as well hear it at first-hand. Felicia, this young fellow is
      so thin-skinned he is afraid you will laugh at him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he knows better. I have just been telling him how charming he must be
      to have won Miss MacFarlane's good opinion,&rdquo; rejoined his sister as she
      moved her work-basket nearer her elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then, with mind at rest, now that he was sure Ruth had not heard, and
      with eyes again blazing as his thoughts dwelt upon the outrage, he poured
      out his story, Miss Felicia listening intently, a curious expression on
      her face, Peter grave and silent, his gaze now on the boy, now on the
      hearth-rug on which he stood. Only once did a flash illumine his
      countenance; that was when Jack reached that part of his narrative which
      told of the denunciation he had flung in his uncle's face concerning the
      methods by which poor Gilbert had been ruined.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you dared tell your uncle that, you young firebrand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Grayson, I had to; what else could I say? Don't you think it
      cruel to cheat like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what did he say?&rdquo; asked Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would not listen&mdash;he swore at me&mdash;told me&mdash;well, he
      ordered me out of the room and had the lights put out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it served you right, you young dog! Well, upon my word! Here you are
      without a dollar in the world except what your uncle pays you, and you fly
      off at a tangent and insult him in his own house&mdash;and you his guest,
      remember. Well! Well! What are we coming to? Felicia, did you ever hear of
      such a performance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia made no answer. She knew from her brother's tone that there
      was not a drop of bitterness in any one of the words that fell from his
      lips; she had heard him talk that way dozens of times before, when he was
      casting about for some means of letting the culprit down the easier. She
      even detected a slight wrinkling of the corners of his mouth as the
      denunciation rolled out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so Jack: To him the end of the world had come. Peter was his last
      resort&mdash;that one so good and so clear-headed had not flared up at
      once over the villainy was the severest blow of all. Perhaps he WAS a
      firebrand; perhaps, after all, it was none of his business; perhaps&mdash;perhaps&mdash;now
      that Ruth would not blame him, knew nothing, in fact, of the disgraceful
      episode, it would have been better for him to have ignored the whole
      matter and taken Garry's advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I have done wrong again, Mr. Grayson?&rdquo; he said at last, in so
      pleading a tone that even Miss Felicia's reserve was on the point of
      giving away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in the manner in which you acted. Your father wouldn't have lost his
      temper and called people names. Gentlemen, my dear boy, don't do that sort
      of thing. They make up their minds about what they want to do and then do
      it quietly, and, let me say, with a certain amount of courtesy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, what must I do?&rdquo; All the fight was out of the lad now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, go back to your desk in the office and your very delightful suite of
      rooms at your uncle's. Tell him you are sorry you let your feelings get
      the best of you; then, when you have entirely quieted down, you and I will
      put our heads together and see what can be done to improve matters. And
      that, let me tell you, my dear boy, is going to be rather a difficult
      thing, for you see you are rather particular as to what you should and
      should not do to earn your living.&rdquo; Peter's wrinkles had now crept up his
      cheeks and were playing hide and seek with the twinkles in his eyes. &ldquo;Of
      course any kind of healthy work&mdash;such, for instance, as hauling a
      chain through a swamp, carrying a level, prospecting for oil, or copper,
      or gold&mdash;all very respectable occupations for some men&mdash;are
      quite impossible in your case. But we will think it out and find something
      easier&mdash;something that won't soil your hands, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please don't, Mr. Grayson,&rdquo; interrupted Jack. The boy had begun to see
      through the raillery now. &ldquo;I will do anything you want me to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter burst into a laugh and grabbed him by both shoulders: &ldquo;Of course, my
      dear boy, you will do anything except what you believe to be wrong. That's
      right&mdash;right as can be; nobody wants you to do any different, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The opening of a door leading into the hall caused Peter to stop in his
      harangue and turn his head. Mrs. McGuffey was ushering in a young woman
      whose radiant face was like a burst of sunshine. Peter strained his eyes
      and then sprang forward:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Ruth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no doubt about it! That young woman, her cheeks like two June
      peonies, her eyes dancing, the daintiest and prettiest hat in the world on
      her head, was already half across the room and close to Peter's rug before
      Jack could even realize that he and she were breathing the same air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I just could not wait a minute longer!&rdquo; she cried in a joyous tone.
      &ldquo;I had such a good time yesterday, dear aunt Felicia, and&mdash;Why!&mdash;it
      is you, Mr. Breen, and have you come to tell aunty the same thing? Wasn't
      it lovely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Jack said that it was lovely, and that he hadn't come for any such
      purpose&mdash;then that he had&mdash;and then Peter patted her hand and
      told her she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen in all his life, and
      that he was going to throw overboard all his other sweethearts at once and
      cleave to her alone; and Miss Felicia vowed that she was the life of the
      party; and Jack devoured her with his eyes, his heart thumping away at
      high pressure; and so the moments fled until the blithesome young girl,
      saying she had not a minute to spare, as she had to meet her father, who
      would not wait, readjusted her wraps, kissed Miss Felicia on both cheeks,
      sent another flying through the air toward Peter from the tips of her
      fingers, and with Jack as escort&mdash;he also had to see a friend who
      would not wait a minute&mdash;danced out of the room and so on down to the
      street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scribe will not follow them very far in their walk uptown. Both were
      very happy, Jack because the scandal he had been dreading, since he had
      last looked into her eyes, had escaped her ears, and Ruth because of all
      the young men she had met in her brief sojourn in New York this young Mr.
      Breen treated her with most consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the two were making their way through the crowded streets, Jack
      helping her over the crossings, picking out the drier spots for her dainty
      feet to step upon, shielding her from the polluting touch of the passing
      throng, Miss Felicia had resumed her sewing&mdash;it was a bit of lace
      that needed a stitch here and there&mdash;and Peter, dragging a chair
      before the fire, had thrown himself into its depths, his long, thin white
      fingers open fan-like to its blaze.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are just wasting your time, Peter, over that young man,&rdquo; Miss Felicia
      said at last, snipping the end of a thread with her scissors. &ldquo;Better buy
      him a guitar with a broad blue ribbon and start him off troubadouring, or,
      better still, put him into a suit of tin armor and give him a lance. He
      doesn't belong to this world. It's just as well Ruth did not hear that
      rigmarole. Charming manners, I admit&mdash;lovely, sitting on a cushion
      looking up into some young girl's eyes, but he will never make his way
      here with those notions. Why he should want to anger his uncle, who is
      certainly most kind to him, is past finding out. He's stupid, that's what
      he is&mdash;just stupid!&rdquo;&mdash;to break with your bread and butter and to
      defy those who could be of service to you being an unpardonable sin with
      Miss Felicia. No, he would not do at all for Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter settled himself deeper in his chair and studied the cheery blaze
      between his outspread fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the very thing will save him, Felicia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;his manners?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;his adorable stupidity. I grant you he's fighting windmills,
      but, then, my dear, don't forget that he's FIGHTING&mdash;that's
      something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they are only windmills, and, more extraordinary still, this one is
      grinding corn to keep him from starving,&rdquo; and she folded up her sewing
      preparatory to leaving the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter's fingers closed tight: &ldquo;I'm not so sure of that,&rdquo; he answered
      gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia had risen from her seat and was now bending over the back of
      his chair, her spare sharp elbows resting on its edge, her two hands
      clasping his cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And are you really going to add this stupid boy to your string, you goose
      of a Peter?&rdquo; she asked in a bantering tone, as her fingers caressed his
      temples. &ldquo;Don't forget Mosenthal and little Perkins, and the waiter you
      brought home and fed for a week, and sent away in your best overcoat,
      which he pawned the next day; or the two boys at college. Aren't you ever
      going to learn?&rdquo; and she leaned forward and kissed the top of his bald
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter's only reply was to reach up and smooth her jewelled fingers with
      his own. He remembered them all; there was an excuse, of course, he
      reminded her, for his action in each and every case. But for him Mosenthal&mdash;really
      a great violinist&mdash;would have starved, little Perkins would have been
      sent to the reformatory, and the waiter to the dogs. That none of them,
      except the two college boys, had ever thanked him for his assistance&mdash;a
      fact well known to Miss Felicia&mdash;never once crossed his mind&mdash;wouldn't
      have made any difference if it had.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this young Breen is worth saving, Felicia,&rdquo; he answered at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From what&mdash;the penitentiary?&rdquo; she laughed&mdash;this time with a
      slight note of anger in her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you foolish thing&mdash;much worse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From what, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Long after his sister had left the room Peter kept his seat by the fire,
      his eyes gazing into the slumbering coals. His holiday had been a happy
      one until Jack's entrance: Morris had come to an early breakfast and had
      then run down and dragged up Cohen so that he could talk with him in
      comfort and away from the smell of the tailor's goose and the noise of the
      opening and shutting of the shop door; Miss Felicia had summoned all her
      good humor and patience (she did not always approve of Peter's
      acquaintances&mdash;the little tailor being one), and had received Cohen
      as she would have done a savant from another country&mdash;one whose
      personal appearance belied his intellect but who on no account must be
      made aware of that fact, and Peter himself had spent the hour before and
      after breakfast&mdash;especially the hour after, when the Bank always
      claimed him&mdash;in pulling out and putting back one book after another
      from the shelves of his small library, reading a page here and a line
      there, the lights and shadows that crossed his eager, absorbed face, an
      index of his enjoyment.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this had been spoiled by a wild, untamed colt of a boy whom he could
      not help liking in spite of his peculiarities.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, was his sister not right? Why bother himself any more about a man
      so explosive and so tactless&mdash;and he WAS a man, so far as years and
      stature went, who, no matter what he might attempt for his advancement,
      would as surely topple it over as he would a house of cards. That the
      boy's ideals were high, and his sincerity beyond question, was true, but
      what use would these qualities be to him if he lacked the common-sense to
      put them into practice?
    </p>
    <p>
      All this he told to the fire&mdash;first to one little heap of coals&mdash;then
      another&mdash;snuggling together&mdash;and then to the big back-log
      scarred all over in its fight to keep everybody warm and happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly his round, glistening head ceased bobbing back and forth; his
      lips, which had talked incessantly without a sound falling from them,
      straightened; his gesticulating fingers tightened into a hard knot and the
      old fellow rose from his easy-chair. He had made up his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then began a search through his desk in and out of the pigeon-holes, under
      a heap of letters&mdash;most of them unanswered; beneath a package tied
      with tape, until his eyes fell upon an envelope sealed with wax, in which
      was embedded the crest of the ancestors of the young gentleman whose
      future had so absorbed his thoughts. It was Mrs. Breen's acceptance of
      Miss Felicia's invitation to Miss MacFarlane's tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, here it is! Now I'll find the number&mdash;yes, 864&mdash;I thought
      it was a &ldquo;4&rdquo;&mdash;but I didn't want to make any mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This done, and the note with the number and street of Jack's uncle's house
      spread out before him, Peter squared his elbows, took a sheet of paper
      from a drawer, covered it with half a dozen lines beginning &ldquo;My dear Breen&mdash;&rdquo;
       enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to &ldquo;Mr. John Breen, care of
      Arthur Breen, Esq.,&rdquo; etc. This complete, he affixed the stamp in the upper
      left-hand corner, and with the letter fast in his hand disappeared in his
      bedroom, from which he emerged ten minutes later in full walking costume,
      even to his buckskin gloves and shiny high hat, not to mention a brand-new
      silk scarf held in place by his diamond tear-drop, the two in high relief
      above the lapels of his tightly buttoned surtout.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mrs. McGuffey,&rdquo; he said with a cheery smile as he passed out of the
      door (she had caught sight of the letter and had stretched out her hand)&mdash;&ldquo;No&mdash;I
      am going for a walk, and I'll mail it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Whatever the function&mdash;whether it was a cosey dinner for the
      congenial few, a crowded reception for the uncongenial many, or a
      coming-out party for some one of the eager-expectant buds just bursting
      into bloom&mdash;most of whom he had known from babyhood&mdash;Peter was
      always ready with his &ldquo;Of course I'll come&mdash;&rdquo; or &ldquo;Nothing would
      delight me more&mdash;&rdquo; or the formal &ldquo;Mr. Grayson accepts with great
      pleasure,&rdquo; etc., unless the event should fall upon a Saturday night; then
      there was certain to be a prompt refusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Miss Felicia recognized this unbreakable engagement and made her
      plans accordingly. So did good Mrs. McGuffey, who selected this night for
      her own social outings; and so did most of his intimate friends who were
      familiar with his habits.
    </p>
    <p>
      On any other night you might, or you might not, find Peter at home,
      dependent upon his various engagements, but if you really wanted to get
      hold of his hand, or his ear, or the whole or any other part of his
      delightful body, and if by any mischance you happened to select a Saturday
      night for your purpose, you must search for him at the Century. To spend
      this one evening at his favorite club had been his custom for years&mdash;ever
      since he had been elected to full membership&mdash;a date so far back in
      the dim past that the oldest habitue had to search the records to make
      sure of the year, and this custom he still regularly kept up.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the quaint old club-house was but a stone's throw from his own
      quarters in Fifteenth Street made no difference; he would willingly have
      tramped to Murray Hill and beyond&mdash;even as far as the big reservoir,
      had the younger and more progressive element among the members picked the
      institution up bodily and moved it that far&mdash;as later on they did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not that he favored any such innovation: &ldquo;Move up-town! Why, my dear sir!&rdquo;
       he protested, when the subject was first mentioned, &ldquo;is there nothing in
      the polish of these old tables and chairs, rubbed bright by the elbows of
      countless good fellows, that appeals to you? Do you think any modern
      varnish can replace it? Here I have sat for thirty years or more, and&mdash;please
      God!&mdash;here I want to continue to sit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was at his own small table in the front room overlooking the street
      when he spoke&mdash;his by right of long use, as it was also of Morris,
      MacFarlane, Wright, old Partridge the painter, and Knight the sculptor.
      For years this group of Centurions, after circling the rooms on meeting
      nights, criticising the pictures and helping themselves to the punch, had
      dropped into these same seats by the side of Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      And these were not the only chairs tacitly recognized as carrying special
      privileges by reason of long usage. Over in the corner between the two
      rooms could be found Bayard Taylor's chair&mdash;his for years, from which
      he dispensed wisdom, adventure and raillery to a listening coterie&mdash;King,
      MacDonough and Collins among them, while near the stairs, his great shaggy
      head glistening in the overhead light, Parke Godwin held court, with
      Sterling, Martin and Porter, to say nothing of still older habitues who in
      the years of their membership were as much a part of the fittings of the
      club as the smoke-begrimed portraits which lined its walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this Saturday night he had stepped into the clubhouse with more than
      his usual briskness. Sweeping a comprehensive glance around as he entered,
      as if looking for some one in the hall, he slipped off his overcoat and
      hat and handed both to the negro servant in charge of the cloak-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;George.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Grayson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If anybody inquires for me you will find me either on this floor or in
      the library above. Don't forget, and don't make any mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, suh&mdash;ain't goin' to be no mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This done, the old gentleman moved to the mirror, and gave a sidelong
      glance at his perfectly appointed person&mdash;he had been dining at the
      Portmans', had left the table early, and was in full evening dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inspection proved that the points of his collar wanted straightening
      the thousandth part of an inch, and that his sparse gray locks needed
      combing a wee bit further toward his cheek bones. These, with a certain
      rebellious fold in his necktie, having been brought into place, the
      guardian of the Exeter entered the crowded room, picked a magazine from
      the shelves and dropped into his accustomed seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Holker Morris and Lagarge now strolled in and drawing up to a small table
      adjoining Peter's touched a tiny bell. This answered, and the order given,
      the two renewed a conversation which had evidently been begun outside, and
      which was of so absorbing a character that for a moment Peter's face, half
      hidden by his book, was unnoticed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;that's you, Methusaleh, is it!&rdquo; cried Morris at last. &ldquo;Move
      over&mdash;have something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter looked up smiling: &ldquo;Not now, Holker. I will later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Morris kept on talking. Lagarge, his companion&mdash;a thin,
      cadaverous-looking man with a big head and the general air of having been
      carved out of an old root&mdash;a great expert in ceramics&mdash;listening
      intently, bobbing his head in toy-mandarin fashion whenever one of
      Holker's iconoclasms cleared the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose they did pay thirty thousand dollars for it,&rdquo; Holker insisted,
      slapping his knee with his outspread palm. &ldquo;That makes the picture no
      better and no worse. If it was mine, and I could afford it, I would sell
      it to anybody who loved it for thirty cents rather than sell it to a man
      who didn't, for thirty millions. When Troyon painted it he put his soul
      into it, and you can no more tack a price to that than you can stick an
      auction card on a summer cloud, or appraise the perfume from a rose
      garden. It has no money value, Legarge, and never will have. You might as
      well list sunsets on the Stock Exchange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Troyon had to live, Holker,&rdquo; chimed in Harrington, who, with the
      freedom accorded every member of the club&mdash;one of its greatest charms&mdash;had
      just joined the group and sat listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; rejoined Morris, a quizzical expression crossing his face&mdash;&ldquo;that
      was the curse of it. He was born a man and had a stomach instead of being
      born a god without one. As to living&mdash;he didn't really live&mdash;no
      great painter really lives until he is dead. And that's the way it should
      be&mdash;they would never have become immortal with a box full of bonds
      among their assets. They would have stopped work. Now they can rest in
      their graves with the consciousness that they have done their level best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is one thing would lift him out of it, or ought to,&rdquo; remarked
      Harrington, with a glance around the circle. &ldquo;I am, of course, speaking of
      Troyon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Morris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The news that Roberts paid thirty thousand dollars for a picture for
      which the painter was glad to get three thousand francs,&rdquo; a reply which
      brought a roar from the group, Morris joining in heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circle had now widened to the filling of a dozen chairs, Morris's way
      of putting things being one of the features of club nights, he, as usual,
      dominating the talk, calling out &ldquo;Period&rdquo;&mdash;his way of notifying some
      speaker to come to a full stop, whenever he broke away from the facts and
      began soaring into hyperbolics&mdash;Morgan, Harrington and the others
      laughing in unison at his sallies.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clouds of tobacco smoke grew thicker. The hum of conversation louder;
      especially at an adjoining table where one lean old Academician in a
      velvet skull cap was discussing the new impressionistic craze which had
      just begun to show itself in the work of the younger men. This had gone on
      for some minutes when the old man turned upon them savagely and began
      ridiculing the new departure as a cloak to hide poor drawing, an outspoken
      young painter asserting in their defence, that any technique was helpful
      if it would kill off the snuff-box school in which the man under the skull
      cap held first place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Morris had lent an ear to the discussion and again took up the cudgels.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You young fellows are right,&rdquo; he cried, twisting his body toward their
      table. The realists have had their day; they work a picture to death; all
      of them. If you did but know it, it really takes two men to paint a great
      picture&mdash;one to do the work and the other to kill him when he has
      done enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pity some of your murderers, Holker, didn't start before they stretched
      their canvases,&rdquo; laughed Harrington.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the hours sped on.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time Peter had been listening with one ear wide open&mdash;the
      one nearest the door&mdash;for any sound in that direction. French
      masterpieces, Impressionism and the rest of it did not interest him
      to-night. Something else was stirring him&mdash;something he had been
      hugging to his heart all day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only the big and little coals in his own fireplace in Fifteenth Street,
      and perhaps the great back-log, beside himself, knew the cause. He had not
      taken Miss Felicia into his confidence&mdash;that would never have done&mdash;might,
      indeed, have spoilt everything. Even when he had risen from Morris's
      coterie to greet Henry MacFarlane&mdash;Ruth's father&mdash;his intimate
      friend for years, and who answered his hand-shake with&mdash;&ldquo;Well, you
      old rascal&mdash;what makes you look so happy?&mdash;anybody left you a
      million?&rdquo;&mdash;even then he gave no inkling of the amount of bottled
      sunshine he was at the precise moment carrying inside his well-groomed
      body, except to remark with all his twinkles and wrinkles scampering
      loose:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seeing you, Henry&mdash;&rdquo; an answer which, while it only excited derision
      and a sly thrust of his thumb into Peter's ribs, was nevertheless
      literally true if the distinguished engineer did but know it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only when the hours dragged on and his oft-consulted watch marked
      ten o'clock that the merry wrinkles began to straighten and the eyes to
      wander.
    </p>
    <p>
      When an additional ten minutes had ticked themselves out, and then a five
      and then a ten more, the old fellow became so nervous that he began to
      make a tour of the club-house, even ascending the stairs, searching the
      library and dining-room, scanning each group and solitary individual he
      passed, until, thoroughly discouraged, he regained his seat only to press
      a bell lying among some half-empty glasses. The summoned waiter listened
      attentively, his head bent low to catch the whispered order, and then
      disappeared noiselessly in the direction of the front door, Peter's
      fingers meanwhile beating an impatient staccato on the arm of his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing resulting from this experiment he at last gave up all hope and
      again sought MacFarlane who was trying to pound into the head of a brother
      engineer some new theory of spontaneous explosions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly had he drawn up a chair to listen&mdash;he was a better listener
      to-night, somehow, than a talker, when a hand was laid on his shoulder,
      and looking up, he saw Jack bending over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a little cry of joy Peter sprang to his feet, both palms
      outstretched: &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;you're here at last! Didn't I say nine o'clock,
      my dear boy, or am I wrong? Well, so you are here it's all right.&rdquo; Then
      with face aglow he turned to MacFarlane: &ldquo;Henry, here's a young fellow you
      ought to know; his name's John Breen, and he's from your State.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer stopped short in his talk and absorbed Jack from his neatly
      brushed hair, worn long at the back of his neck, to his well-shod feet,
      and held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Maryland? So am I; I was raised down in Prince George County. Glad
      to know you. Are you any connection of the Breens of Ann Arundle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir&mdash;all my people came from Ann Arundle. My father was Judge
      Breen,&rdquo; answered Jack with embarrassment. He had not yet become accustomed
      to the novelty of the scene around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I know just where you belong. My father and yours were friends. I
      have often heard him speak of Judge Breen. And did you not meet my
      daughter at Miss Grayson's the other day? She told me she had met a Mr.
      Breen from our part of the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's eyes danced. Was this what Peter had invited him to the club for?
      Now it was all clear. And then again he had not said a word about his
      being in the Street, or connected with it in any way. Was there ever such
      a good Peter?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, sir!&mdash;and I hope she is very well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer said she was extremely well, never better in her life, and
      that he was delighted to meet a son of his old friend&mdash;then, turning
      to the others, immediately forgot Jack's existence, and for the time being
      his daughter, in the discussion still going on around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young fellow settled himself in his seat and looked about him&mdash;at
      the smoke-stained ceiling, the old portraits and quaint fittings and
      furniture&mdash;more particularly at the men. He would have liked to talk
      to Ruth's father a little longer, but he felt dazed and ill at ease&mdash;out
      of his element, somehow&mdash;although he remembered the same kind of
      people at his father's house, except that they wore different clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Peter did not leave him long in meditation. There were other surprises
      for him upstairs, in the small dining-room opening out of the library,
      where a long table was spread with eatables and drinkables&mdash;salads,
      baby sausages, escaloped oysters, devilled crabs and other dishes dear to
      old and new members. Here men were met standing in groups, their plates in
      their hands, or seated at the smaller tables, when a siphon and a beer
      bottle, or a mug of Bass would be added to their comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was there the Scribe met him for the second time, my first being the
      Morris dinner, when he sat within speaking distance. I had heard of him,
      of course, as Peter's new protege&mdash;indeed, the old fellow had talked
      of nothing else, and so I was glad to renew the acquaintance. I found him
      to be like all other young fellows of his class&mdash;I had lived among
      his people, and knew&mdash;rather shy, with a certain deferential air
      toward older people&mdash;but with the composure belonging to unconscious
      youth&mdash;no fidgeting or fussing&mdash;modest, unassertive&mdash;his
      big brown eyes under their heavy lashes studying everything about him, his
      face brightening when you addressed him. I discovered, too, a certain
      indefinable charm which won me to him at once. Perhaps it was his youth;
      perhaps it was a certain honest directness, together with a total lack of
      all affectation that appealed to me, but certain it is that not many
      minutes had passed before I saw why Peter liked him, and I saw, too, why
      he liked Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I asked him&mdash;we had found three empty seats at a table&mdash;what
      impressed him most in the club, it being his first visit, he answered in
      his simple, direct way, that he thought it was the note of good-fellowship
      everywhere apparent, the men greeting each other as if they really meant
      it. Another feature was the dress and faces of the members&mdash;especially
      the authors, to whom Peter had introduced him, whose books he had read,
      and whose personalities he had heard discussed, and who, to his
      astonishment, had turned out to be shabby-looking old fellows who smoked
      and drank, or played chess, like other ordinary mortals, and without
      pretence of any kind so far as he could detect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just like one big family, isn't it, Mr. Grayson?&rdquo; the boy said. &ldquo;Don't
      you two gentlemen love to come here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't look like very rich men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're not. Now and then a camel crawls through but it is a tight
      squeeze,&rdquo; remarked Peter arching his gray, bushy eyebrows, a smile
      hovering about his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy laughed: &ldquo;Well, then, how did they get here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Principally because they lead decent lives, are not puffed up with
      conceit, have creative brains and put them to some honest use,&rdquo; answered
      Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy looked away for a moment and remarked quietly that about everybody
      he knew would fail in one or more of these qualifications. Then he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now tell me, Mr. Grayson, what most of them do&mdash;that gentleman,
      for instance, who is talking to the old man in the velvet cap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is General Norton, one of our most distinguished engineers. He is
      Consulting Engineer in the Croton Aqueduct Department, and his opinion is
      sought all over the country. He started life as a tow-boy on the Erie
      Canal, and when he was your age he was keeping tally of dump-cars from a
      cut on the Pennsylvania Railroad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked at the General in wonderment, but he was too much interested
      in the other persons about him to pursue the inquiry any further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the man next to him&mdash;the one with his hand to his head?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't recall him, but the Major may.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is Professor Hastings of Yale,&rdquo; I replied&mdash;&ldquo;perhaps the most
      eminent chemist in this or any other country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what did he do when he was a boy?&rdquo; asked young Breen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Made pills, I expect, and washed out test tubes and retorts,&rdquo; interrupted
      Peter, with a look on his face as if the poor professor were more to be
      pitied than commended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did any of them dig?&rdquo; asked the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind of digging?&rdquo; inquired Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the kind you spoke of the night you came to see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, with their hands?&rdquo; cried Peter with a laugh. &ldquo;Well, now, let me see&mdash;&rdquo;
       and his glance roved about the room. &ldquo;There is Mr. Schlessinger, the
      Egyptologist, but of course he was after mummies, not dirt; and then there
      is&mdash;yes&mdash;that sun-burned young fellow of forty, talking to Mr.
      Eastman Johnson; he has been at work in Yucatan looking for Toltec ruins,
      because he told me his experience only a few nights ago; but then, of
      course, that can hardly be said to be&mdash;Oh!&mdash;now I have it. You
      see that tall man with side-whiskers, looking like a young bank president&mdash;my
      kind&mdash;my boy&mdash;well, he started life with a pick and shovel. The
      steel point of the pick if I remember rightly, turned up a nugget of gold
      that made him rich, but he DUG all the same, and he may again some day&mdash;you
      can't tell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It had all been a delightful experience for Jack and his face showed it,
      but it was not until after I left that the story of why he had come late
      was told. He had started several times to explain but the constant
      interruption of members anxious to shake Peter's hand, had always
      prevented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't apologized for being late, sir,&rdquo; Jack had said at last. &ldquo;It was
      long after ten, I am afraid, but I could not help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; what was the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't get the letter until half an hour before I reached here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I sent it to your uncle's house, and mailed it myself, just after
      you had gone out with Miss MacFarlane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; but I am not at my uncle's house any more. I am staying with
      Garry Minott in his rooms; I have the sofa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter gave a low whistle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have given up your desk at the office as well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless my soul, my boy! And what are you going to do now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know; but I will not go on as I have been doing. I can't, Mr.
      Grayson, and you must not ask it. I would rather sweep the streets. I have
      just seen poor Charley Gilbert and Mrs. Gilbert. He has not a dollar in
      the world, and is going West, he tells me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter reflected for a moment. It was all he could do to hide his delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do your people say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My aunt says I am an idiot, and Corinne won't speak to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your uncle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, to me. He told Garry that if I didn't come back in three days I
      should never enter his house or his office again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are going back? Are you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;never. Not if I starve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter's eyes were twinkling when he related the conversation to me the
      next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could have hugged him, Major,&rdquo; he said, when he finished, &ldquo;and I would
      if we had not been at the club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Scribe is quite positive that had you only heard about it as he had,
      even with the details elaborated, not only by Peter, who was conservatism
      itself in his every statement, but by Miss Felicia as well&mdash;who
      certainly ought to have known&mdash;you would not have believed it
      possible until you had seen it. Even then you would have had to drop into
      one of Miss Felicia's cretonne-upholstered chairs&mdash;big easy-chairs
      that fitted into every hollow and bone in your back&mdash;looked the
      length of the uneven porch, run your astonished eye down the damp,
      water-soaked wooden steps to the moist brick pavement below, and so on to
      the beds of crocuses blooming beneath the clustering palms and orange
      trees, before you could realize (in spite of the drifting snow heaped up
      on the door-steps of her house outside&mdash;some of it still on your
      shoes) that you were in Miss Felicia's tropical garden, attached to Miss
      Felicia's Geneseo house, and not in the back yard of some old home in the
      far-off sunny South.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an old story, of course, to Peter, who had the easy-chair beside
      me, and so it was to Morris, who had helped Miss Felicia carry out so
      Utopian a scheme, but it had come to me as a complete surprise, and I was
      still wide-eyed and incredulous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what keeps out the cold?&rdquo; I asked Morris, who was lying back blowing
      rings into the summer night, the glow of an overhead lantern lighting up
      his handsome face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glass,&rdquo; he laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, just above the vines, my dear Major,&rdquo; interrupted Miss Felicia,
      pointing upward. &ldquo;Come and let me show you my frog pond&mdash;&rdquo; and away
      we went along the brick paths, bordered with pots of flowers, to a tiny
      lake covered with lily-pads and circled by water-plants.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not want a greenhouse&mdash;I wanted a back yard,&rdquo; she continued,
      &ldquo;and I just would have it. Holker sent his men up, and on three sides we
      built a wall that looked a hundred years old&mdash;but it is not five&mdash;and
      roofed it over with glass, and just where you see the little flight of
      stairs is the heat. That old arbor in the corner has been here ever since
      I was a child, and so have the syringa bushes and the green box next the
      wall. I wanted them all the year round&mdash;not just for three or four
      months in the year&mdash;and that witch Holker said he could do it, and he
      has. Half the weddings in town have been begun right on that bench, and
      when the lanterns are lighted and the fountain turned on outside, no
      gentleman ever escapes. You and Peter are immune, so I sha'n't waste any
      of my precious ammunition on you. And now what will you wear in your
      button-hole&mdash;a gardenia, or some violets? Ruth will be down in a
      minute, and you must look your prettiest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But if the frog pond, damp porch and old-fashioned garden had come as a
      surprise, what shall I say of the rest of Miss Felicia's house which I am
      now about to inspect under Peter's guidance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, come along,&rdquo; he cried, slipping his arm through mine. &ldquo;You have had
      enough of the garden, for between you and me, my dear Major&rdquo;&mdash;here he
      looked askance at Miss Felicia&mdash;&ldquo;I think it an admirable place in
      which to take cold, and that's why&mdash;&rdquo; and he passed his hand over his
      scalp&mdash;&ldquo;I always insist on wearing my hat when I walk here. Mere
      question of imagination, perhaps, but old fellows like you and me should
      take no chances&mdash;&rdquo; and he laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This room was my father's,&rdquo; continued Peter. &ldquo;The bookcases have still
      some of the volumes he loved; he liked the low ceiling and the big
      fireplace, and always wrote here&mdash;it was his library, really. There
      opens the old drawing-room and next to it is Felicia's den, where she
      concocts most of her deviltry, and the dining-room beyond&mdash;and that's
      all there is on this floor, except the kitchen, which you'll hear from
      later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as Peter rattled on, telling me the history of this and that piece of
      old furniture, or portrait, or queer clock, my eyes were absorbing the air
      of cosey comfort that permeated every corner of the several rooms.
      Everything had the air of being used. In the library the chairs were of
      leather, stretched into saggy folds by many tired backs; the wide, high
      fender fronting the hearth, though polished so that you could see your
      face in it, showed the marks of many a drying shoe, while on the bricks
      framing the fireplace could still be seen the scratchings of countless
      matches.
    </p>
    <p>
      The drawing-room, too&mdash;although, as in all houses of its class and
      period, a thing of gilt frames, high mirrors and stiff furniture&mdash;was
      softened by heaps of cushions, low stools and soothing arm-chairs, while
      Miss Felicia's own particular room was so veritable a symphony in chintz,
      white paint and old mahogany, with cubby-holes crammed with knickknacks,
      its walls hung with rare etchings; pots of flowers everywhere and the
      shelves and mantels crowded with photographs of princes, ambassadors,
      grand dukes, grand ladies, flossy-headed children, chubby-cheeked babies
      (all souvenirs of her varied and busy life), that it was some minutes
      before I could throw myself into one of her heavenly arm-chairs, there to
      be rested as I had never been before, and never expect to be again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It being Peter's winter holiday, he and Morris had stopped over on their
      way down from Buffalo, where Holker had spoken at a public dinner. The
      other present and expected guests were Ruth MacFarlane, who was already
      upstairs; her father, Henry MacFarlane, who was to arrive by the next
      train, and last and by no means lest, his confidential clerk, Mr. John
      Breen, now two years older and, it is to be hoped, with considerable more
      common-sense than when he chucked himself neck and heels out into the cold
      world. Whether the expected arrival of this young gentleman had anything
      to do with the length of time it took Ruth to dress, the Scribe knoweth
      not. There is no counting upon the whims and vagaries of even the average
      young woman of the day, and as Ruth was a long way above that medium
      grade, and with positive ideas of her own as to whom she liked and whom
      she did not like, and was, besides, a most discreet and close-mouthed
      young person, it will be just as well for us to watch the game of
      battledoor and shuttlecock still being played between Jack and herself,
      before we arrive at any fixed conclusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Any known and admitted facts connected with either one of the contestants
      are, however, in order, and so while we are waiting for old Moggins, who
      drives the village 'bus, and who has been charged by Miss Felicia on no
      account to omit bringing in his next load a certain straight,
      bronzed-cheeked, well-set-up young man with a springy step, accompanied by
      a middle-aged gentleman who looked like a soldier, and deliver them both
      with their attendant baggage at her snow-banked door, any data regarding
      this same young man's movements since the night Peter wanted to hug him
      for leaving his uncle's service, cannot fail to be of interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      To begin then with the day on which Jack, with Frederick, the second man's
      assistance, packed his belongings and accepted Garry's invitation to make
      a bed of his lounge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The kind-hearted Frederick knew what it was to lose a place, and so his
      sympathies had been all the more keen. Parkins's nose, on the contrary,
      had risen a full degree and stood at an angle of 45 degrees, for he had
      not only heard the ultimatum of his employer, but was rather pleased with
      the result. As for the others, no one ever believed the boy really meant
      it, and everybody&mdash;even the maids and the high-priced chef&mdash;fully
      expected Jack would turn prodigal as soon as his diet of husks had whetted
      his appetite for dishes more nourishing and more toothsome. But no one of
      them took account of the quality of the blood that ran in the young man's
      veins.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was scheming Peter who saved the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put that young fellow to work, Henry,&rdquo; he had said to MacFarlane the
      morning after the three had met at the Century Club.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he know, Peter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, except to speak the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And thus it had come to pass that within twenty-four hours thereafter the
      boy had shaken the dust of New York from his feet&mdash;even to resigning
      from the Magnolia, and a day later was found bending over a pine desk
      knocked together by a hammer and some ten-penny nails in a six-by-nine
      shanty, the whole situated at the mouth of a tunnel half a mile from
      Corklesville, where he was at work on the pay-roll of the preceding week.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many things had helped in deciding him to take the proffered place. First,
      Peter had wanted it; second, his uncle did not want it, Corinne and his
      aunt being furious that he should go to work like a common laborer, or&mdash;as
      Garry had put it&mdash;&ldquo;a shovel-spanked dago.&rdquo; Third, Ruth was within
      calling distance, and that in itself meant Heaven. Once installed,
      however, he had risen steadily, both in MacFarlane's estimation and in the
      estimation of his fellow-workers; especially the young engineers who were
      helping his Chief in the difficult task before him. Other important
      changes had also taken place in the two years: his body had strengthened,
      his face had grown graver, his views of life had broadened and, best of
      all, his mind was at rest. Of one thing he was sure&mdash;no confiding
      young Gilberts would be fleeced in his present occupation&mdash;not if he
      knew anything about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moreover, the outdoor life which he had so longed for was his again. On
      Saturday afternoons and Sundays he tramped the hills, or spent hours
      rowing on the river. His employer's villa was also always open to him&mdash;a
      privilege not granted to the others in the working force. The old tie of
      family was the sesame. Judge Breen's son was, both by blood and training,
      the social equal of any man, and although the distinguished engineer,
      being well born himself, seldom set store on such things, he recognized
      his obligation in Jack's case and sought the first opportunity to tell him
      so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will find a great change in your surroundings, Mr. Breen,&rdquo; he had
      said. &ldquo;The little hotel where you will have to put up is rather rough and
      uncomfortable, but you are always welcome at my home, and this I mean, and
      I hope you will understand it that way without my mentioning it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy's heart leaped to his throat as he listened, and a dozen
      additional times that day his eyes had rested on the clump of trees which
      shaded the roof sheltering Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the exclusive Miss Grayson should now have invited him to pass some
      days at her home had brought with it a thrill of greater delight. Her
      opinion of the boy had changed somewhat. His willingness to put up with
      the discomforts of the village inn&mdash;&ldquo;a truly dreadful place,&rdquo; to
      quote one of Miss Felicia's own letters&mdash;and to continue to put up
      with them for more than two years, while losing nothing of his good-humor
      and good manners, had shaken her belief in the troubadour and tin-armor
      theory, although nothing in Jack's surroundings or in his prospects for
      the future fitted him, so far as she could see, to life companionship with
      so dear a girl as her beloved Ruth&mdash;a view which, of course, she kept
      strictly to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she still continued to criticise him, at which Peter would rub his
      hands and break out with:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine fellow!&mdash;square peg in a square hole this time. Fine fellow, I
      tell you, Felicia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He receiving in reply some such answer as:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, quite lovely in fairy tales, Peter, and when you have taught him&mdash;for
      you did it, remember&mdash;how to shovel and clean up underbrush and split
      rocks&mdash;and that just's what Ruth told me he was doing when she took a
      telegram to her father which had come to the house&mdash;and he in a pair
      of overalls, like any common workman&mdash;what, may I ask, will you have
      him doing next? Is he to be an engineer or a clerk all his life? He might
      have had a share in his uncle's business by this time if he had had any
      common-sense;&rdquo; Peter retorting often with but a broad smile and that
      little gulp of satisfaction&mdash;something between a chuckle and a sigh&mdash;which
      always escaped him when some one of his proteges were living up to his pet
      theories.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet it was Miss Felicia herself who was the first to welcome the
      reprobate, even going to the front door and standing in the icy draught,
      with the snowflakes whirling about her pompadoured head, until Jack had
      alighted from the tail-end of Moggins's 'bus and, with his satchel in his
      hand, had cleared the sidewalk with a bound and stood beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm so glad to be here,&rdquo; Jack had begun, &ldquo;and it was so good of you
      to want me,&rdquo; when a voice rang clear from the top of the stairs:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where's daddy&mdash;isn't he coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;how do you do, Miss Ruth? No; I am sorry to say he could not
      leave&mdash;that is, we could not persuade him to leave. He sent you all
      manner of messages, and you, too, Miss&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He isn't coming? Oh, I am so disappointed! What is the matter, is he
      ill?&rdquo; She was half-way down the staircase now, her face showing how keen
      was her disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;nothing's the matter&mdash;only we are arranging for an
      important blast in a day or two, and he felt he couldn't be away. I can
      only stay the night.&rdquo; Jack had his overcoat stripped from his broad
      shoulders now and the two had reached each other's hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia watched them narrowly out of her sharp, kindly eyes. This
      love-affair&mdash;if it were a love-affair&mdash;had been going on for
      years now and she was still in the dark as to the outcome. There was no
      question that the boy was head over heels in love with the girl&mdash;she
      could see that from the way the color mounted to his cheeks when Ruth's
      voice rang out, and the joy in his eyes when they looked into hers. How
      Ruth felt toward her new guest was what she wanted to know. This was,
      perhaps, the only reason why she had invited him&mdash;another thing she
      kept strictly to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the two understood it&mdash;if Miss Felicia did not. There may be
      shrewd old ladies who can read minds at a glance, and fussy old men who
      can see through blind millstones, and who know it all, but give me two
      lovers to fool them both to the top of their bent, be they so minded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, dear, let Mr. Breen go to his room, for we dine in an hour, and
      Holker will be cross as two sticks if we keep it waiting a minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Holker was not cross&mdash;not when dinner was served; nobody was
      cross&mdash;certainly not Peter, who was in his gayest mood; and certainly
      not Ruth or Jack, who babbled away next to each other. Peter's heart
      swelled with pride and satisfaction as he saw the change which two years
      of hard work had made in Jack&mdash;not only in his bearing and in a
      certain fearless independence which had become a part of his personality,
      but in the unmistakable note of joyousness which flowed out of him, so
      marked in contrast to the depression which used to haunt him like a
      spectre. Stories of his life at his boarding-house&mdash;vaguely
      christened a hotel by its landlady, Mrs. Hicks&mdash;bubbled out of the
      boy as well as accounts of various escapades among the men he worked with&mdash;especially
      the younger engineers and one of the foremen who had rooms next his own&mdash;all
      told with a gusto and ring that kept the table in shouts of merriment&mdash;Morris
      laughing loudest and longest, Peter whispering behind his hand to Miss
      Felicia:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charming, isn't he?&mdash;and please note, my dear, that none of the dirt
      from his shovel seems to have clogged his wit&mdash;&rdquo; at which there was
      another merry laugh&mdash;Peter's, this time, his being the only voice in
      evidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she is such fun, Miss Felicia&rdquo; (Mrs. Hicks was under discussion),
      called out Jack, realizing that he had, perhaps&mdash;although
      unconsciously&mdash;failed to include his hostess in his coterie of
      listeners. &ldquo;You should see her caps, and the magnificent airs she puts on
      when we come down late to breakfast on Sunday mornings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And tell them about the potatoes,&rdquo; interrupted Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that was disgraceful, but it really could not be helped&mdash;we had
      greasy fried potatoes until we could not stand them another day, and
      Bolton found them in the kitchen late one night ready for the skillet the
      next morning, and filled them with tooth powder, and that ended it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd have set you fellows out on the sidewalk if I'd been Mrs. Hicks,&rdquo;
       laughed Morris. &ldquo;I know that old lady&mdash;I used to stop with her myself
      when I was building the town hall&mdash;and she's good as gold. And now
      tell me how MacFarlane is getting on&mdash;building a railroad, isn't he?
      He told me about it, but I forget.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Jack, his face growing suddenly serious as he turned toward
      the speaker; &ldquo;the company is building the road. We have only got a fill of
      half a mile and then a tunnel of a mile more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia beamed sententiously when Jack said &ldquo;we,&rdquo; but she did not
      interrupt the speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what sort of cutting?&rdquo; continued the architect in a tone that showed
      his entire familiarity with work of the kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gneiss rock for eleven hundred feet and then some mica schist that we
      have had to shore up every time we move our drills,&rdquo; answered Jack
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any cave-ins?&rdquo; Morris was leaning forward now, his eyes riveted on the
      boy's. What information he wanted he felt sure he now could get.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet, but plenty of water. We struck a spring last week&rdquo; (this time
      the &ldquo;we&rdquo; didn't seem so preposterous) &ldquo;that came near drowning us out, but
      we managed to keep it under with a six-inch centrifugal; but it meant
      pumping night and day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when is he going to get through?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends on what is ahead of us. Our borings show up all right&mdash;most
      of it is tough gneiss&mdash;but if we strike gravel or shale again it
      means more timbering, of course. Perhaps another year&mdash;perhaps a few
      months. I am not giving you my own opinion, for I've had very little
      experience, but that is what Bolton thinks&mdash;he's second in command
      next to Mr. MacFarlane&mdash;and so do the other fellows at our boarding
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then followed a discussion on &ldquo;struts,&rdquo; roof timbers and tie-rods,
      Jack describing in a modest, impersonal way the various methods used by
      the members of the staff with which he was connected, Morris, as usual,
      becoming so absorbed in the warding off of &ldquo;cave-ins&rdquo; that for the moment
      he forgot the table, his hostess and everybody about him, a situation
      which, while it delighted Peter, who was bursting with pride over Jack,
      was beginning to wear upon Miss Felicia, who was entirely indifferent as
      to whether the top covering of MacFarlane's underground hole fell in or
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now, Holker,&rdquo; she said with a smile as she laid her hand on his
      coat sleeve&mdash;&ldquo;not another word. Tunnels are things everybody wants to
      get through with as quick as possible&mdash;and I'm not going to spend all
      night in yours&mdash;awful damp places full of smoke&mdash;No&mdash;not
      another word. Ruth, ask that young Roebling next you to tell us another
      story&mdash;No, wait until we have our coffee and you gentlemen have
      lighted your cigars. Perhaps, Ruth, you had better take Mr. Breen into the
      smoking-room. Now, give me your arm, Holker, and you come, too, Major, and
      bring Peter with you to my boudoir. I want to show you the most delicious
      copy of Shelley you ever saw. No, Mr. Breen, Ruth wants you; we will be
      with you in a few minutes&mdash;&rdquo; Then after the two had passed on ahead&mdash;&ldquo;Look
      at them, Major&mdash;aren't they a joy, just to watch?&mdash;and aren't
      you ashamed of yourself that you have wasted your life? No arbor for you!
      What would you give if a lovely girl like that wanted you all to herself
      by the side of my frog pond?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shout ahead from Jack, and a rippling laugh from Ruth now floated our
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;OH!&mdash;&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yes&mdash;isn't it wonderful&mdash;come and
      see the arbor&mdash;&rdquo; and then a clatter of feet down the soggy steps and
      fainter footfalls on the moist bricks, ending in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; laughed Miss Felicia, turning toward us and clapping her hands&mdash;&ldquo;they
      have reached the arbor and it's all over, and now we will all go out on
      the porch for our coffee. I haven't any Shelley that you have not seen a
      dozen times&mdash;I just intended that surprise to come to the boy and in
      the way Ruth wanted it&mdash;she has talked of nothing else since she knew
      he was coming. Mighty dangerous, I can tell you, that old bench. Ruth can
      take care of herself, but that poor fellow will be in a dreadful state if
      we leave them alone too long. Sit here, Holker, and tell me about the
      dinner and what you said. All that Peter could remember was that you never
      did better, and that everybody cheered, and that the squabs were so dry he
      couldn't eat them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the Scribe refuses to be interested in Holker's talk, however
      brilliant, or in Miss Felicia's crisp repartee. His thoughts are down
      among the palms, where the two figures are entering the arbor, the soft
      glow of half a dozen lanterns falling upon the joyous face of the
      beautiful girl, as, with hand in Jack's, she leads him to a seat beside
      her on the bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's like home,&rdquo; Jack gasped. &ldquo;Why, you must remember your own
      garden, and the porch that ran alongside of the kitchen, and the brick
      walls&mdash;and just see how big it is and you never told me a word about
      it! Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, because it would have spoiled all the fun; I was so afraid daddy
      would tell you that I made him promise not to say a word; and nobody else
      had seen it except Mr. Morris, and he said torture couldn't drag it out of
      him. That old Major that Uncle Peter thinks so much of came near spoiling
      the surprise, but Aunt Felicia said she would take care of him in the back
      of the house&mdash;and she did; and I mounted guard at the top of the
      stairs before anybody could get hold of you. Isn't it too lovely?&mdash;and,
      do you know, there are real live frogs in that pond and you can hear them
      croak? And now tell me about daddy, and how he gets on without me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Jack was not ready yet to talk about daddy, or the work, or anything
      that concerned Corklesville and its tunnel&mdash;the transition had been
      too sudden and too startling. To be fired from a gun loaded with care,
      hard work and anxiety&mdash;hurled through hours of winter travel and
      landed at a dinner-table next some charming young woman, was an experience
      which had occurred to him more than once in the past two years. But to be
      thrust still further into space until he reached an Elysium replete with
      whispering fountains, flowering vines and the perfume of countless
      blossoms&mdash;the whole tucked away in a cosey arbor containing a seat
      for two&mdash;AND NO MORE&mdash;and this millions of miles away, so far as
      he could see, from the listening ear or watchful eye of mortal man or
      woman&mdash;and with Ruth, too&mdash;the tips of whose fingers were so
      many little shrines for devout kisses&mdash;that was like having been
      transported into Paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, please let me look around a little,&rdquo; he begged at last. &ldquo;And this is
      why you love to come here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;wouldn't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not live anywhere else if I could&mdash;and it has just the air
      of summer&mdash;and it feels like a summer's night, too&mdash;as if the
      moon was coming up somewhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth's delight equalled his own; she must show him the new tulips just
      sprouting, taking down a lantern so that he could see the better; and he
      must see how the jessamine was twisted in and out the criss-cross slats of
      the trellis, so that the flowers bloomed both outside and in; and the
      little gully in the flagging of the pavement through which ran the
      overflow of the tiny pond&mdash;till the circuit of the garden was made
      and they were again seated on the dangerous bench, with a cushion tucked
      behind her beautiful shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      They talked of the tunnel and when it would be finished; and of the
      village people and whom they liked and whom they didn't&mdash;and why&mdash;and
      of Corinne, whose upturned little nose and superior, dominating airs Ruth
      thought were too funny for words; and of her recently announced engagement
      to Garry Minott, who had started for himself in business and already had a
      commission to build a church at Elm Crest&mdash;known to all New Jersey as
      Corklesville until the real-estate agencies took possession of its uplands&mdash;Jack
      being instrumental, with Mr. MacFarlane's help, in securing him the order;
      and of the dinner to be given next week at Mrs. Brent Foster's on
      Washington Square, to which they were both invited, thanks to Miss Felicia
      for Ruth's invitation, and thanks to Peter for that of Jack, who, at
      Peter's request, had accompanied him one afternoon to one of Mrs. Foster's
      receptions, where he had made so favorable an impression that he was at
      once added to Mrs. Foster's list of eligible young men&mdash;the same
      being a scarce article. They had discussed, I say, all these things and
      many more, in sentences, the Scribe devoutly hopes, much shorter than the
      one he has just written&mdash;when in a casual&mdash;oh, so casual a way&mdash;merely
      as a matter of form&mdash;Ruth asked him if he really must go back to
      Corklesville in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Jack&mdash;&ldquo;there is no one to take charge of the new
      battery but myself, and we have ten holes already filled for blasting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But isn't it only to put the two wires together? Daddy explained it to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but at just the right moment. Half a minute too early might
      ruin weeks of work. We have some supports to blow out. Three charges are
      at their bases&mdash;everything must go off together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is such a short visit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some note in her voice rang through Jack's ears and down into his heart.
      In all their intercourse&mdash;and it had been a free and untrammelled one
      so far as their meetings and being together were concerned&mdash;there was
      invariably a barrier which he could never pass, and one that he was always
      afraid to scale. This time her face was toward him, the rosy light bathing
      her glorious hair and the round of her dimpled cheek. For an instant a
      half-regretful smile quivered on her lips, and then faded as if some
      indrawn sigh had strangled it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack's heart gave a bound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you really sorry to have me go, Miss Ruth?&rdquo; he asked, searching her
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I not be? Is not this better than Mrs. Hicks's, and Aunt
      Felicia would love to have you stay&mdash;she told me so at dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you, Miss Ruth?&rdquo; He had moved a trifle closer&mdash;so close that his
      eager fingers almost touched her own: &ldquo;Do you want me to stay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course, we all want you to stay. Uncle Peter has talked of
      nothing else for days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But do you want me to stay, Miss Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted her head and looked him fearlessly in the eyes:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do&mdash;now that you will have it that way. We are going to have
      a sleigh-ride to-morrow, and I know you would love the open country, it is
      so beautiful, and so is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth! Ruth! you dear child,&rdquo; came a voice&mdash;&ldquo;are you two never coming
      in?&mdash;the coffee is stone cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Aunt Felicia, right away. Run, Mr. Breen&mdash;&rdquo; and she flew up the
      brick path.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the second time Miss Felicia's keen, kindly eyes scanned the young
      girl's face, but only a laugh, the best and surest of masks, greeted her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He thinks it all lovely,&rdquo; Ruth rippled out. &ldquo;Don't you, Mr. Breen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lovely? Why, it is the most wonderful place I ever saw; I could hardly
      believe my senses. I am quite sure old Aunt Hannah is cooking behind that
      door&mdash;&rdquo; here he pointed to the kitchen&mdash;&ldquo;and that poor old Tom
      will come hobbling along in a minute with 'dat mis'ry' in his back. How in
      the world you ever did it, and what&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did you hear my frogs?&rdquo; interrupted his hostess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he didn't, Felicia,&rdquo; broke in Peter. &ldquo;What a question to ask a
      man! Listen to the croakings of your miserable tadpoles with the prettiest
      girl in seven counties&mdash;in seven States, for that matter&mdash;sitting
      beside him! Oh!&mdash;you needn't look, you minx! If he heard a single
      croak he ought to be ducked in the puddle&mdash;and then packed off home
      soaking wet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is what he is going to do himself,&rdquo; rejoined Ruth, dropping into
      a chair which Peter had drawn up for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do what!&rdquo; cried Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pack himself off&mdash;going by the early train&mdash;nothing I can do or
      say has made the slightest impression on him,&rdquo; she said with a toss of her
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack raised his hands in protest, but Peter wouldn't listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you'll come back, sir, on Saturday and stay until Monday, and then
      we'll all go down together and you'll take Ruth across the ferry to her
      father's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, sir, but I am afraid I can't. You see, it all depends on the
      work&mdash;&rdquo; this last came with a certain tone of regret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'll send MacFarlane a note, and have you detailed as an escort of
      one to bring his only daughter&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not do any good, Mr. Grayson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop your nonsense, Jack&mdash;&rdquo; Peter called him so now&mdash;&ldquo;You come
      back for Sunday.&rdquo; These days with the boy were the pleasantest of his
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I would love to&mdash;&rdquo; Here his eyes sought, Ruth&mdash;&ldquo;but we
      have an important blast to make, and we are doing our best to get things
      into shape before the week is out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but suppose it isn't ready?&rdquo; demanded Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it will be,&rdquo; answered Jack in a more positive tone; this part of the
      work was in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, anyhow, send me a telegram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will send it, sir, but I am afraid it won't help matters. Miss Ruth
      knows how delighted I would be to return here and see her safe home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whether she does or whether she doesn't,&rdquo; broke in Miss Felicia, &ldquo;hasn't
      got a single thing to do with it, Peter. You just go back to your work,
      Mr. Breen, and look after your gunpowder plots, or whatever you call them,
      and if some one of these gentlemen of elegant leisure&mdash;not one of
      whom so far has offered his services&mdash;cannot manage to escort you to
      your father's house, Ruth, I will take you myself. Now come inside the
      drawing-room, every one of you, or you will all blame me for undermining
      your precious healths&mdash;you, too, Major, and bring your cigars with
      you. So you don't drop your ashes into my tea-caddy, I don't care where
      you throw them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was late in the afternoon of the second day when the telegram arrived,
      a delay which caused no apparent suffering to any one except, perhaps,
      Peter, who wandered about with a &ldquo;Nothing from Jack yet, eh?&rdquo; A question
      which no one answered, it being addressed to nobody in particular, unless
      it was to Ruth, who had started at every ring of the door-bell. As to Miss
      Felicia&mdash;she had already dismissed the young man from her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it did arrive there was a slight flutter of interest, but nothing
      more; Miss Felicia laying down her book, Ruth asking in indifferent tones&mdash;even
      before the despatch was opened&mdash;&ldquo;Is he coming?&rdquo; and Morris, who was
      playing chess with Peter, holding his pawn in mid-air until the
      interruption was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so Peter&mdash;who with a joyous &ldquo;Didn't I tell you the boy would keep
      his promise&mdash;&rdquo; sprang from his chair, nearly upsetting the
      chess-board in his eagerness to hear from Jack, an eagerness shared by
      Ruth, whose voice again rang out, this time in an anxious tone,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurry up, Uncle Peter&mdash;is he coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter made no answer; he was staring straight at the open slip, his face
      deathly pale, his hand trembling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you all about it in a minute, dear,&rdquo; he said at last with a
      forced smile. Then he touched Morris's arm and the two left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Scribe would willingly omit this chapter. Dying men, hurrying doctors,
      improvised stretchers made of wrenched fence rails; silent, slow-moving
      throngs following limp, bruised bodies,&mdash;are not pleasant objects to
      write about and should be disposed of as quickly as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Exactly whose fault it was nobody knew; if any one did, no one ever told.
      Every precaution had been taken each charge had been properly placed and
      tamped; all the fulminates inspected and the connections made with the
      greatest care. As to the battery&mdash;that was known to be half a mile
      away in the pay shanty, lying on Jack Breen's table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was the weather unfavorable. True, there had been rain the day before,
      starting a general thaw, but none of the downpour had soaked through the
      outer crust of the tunnel to the working force inside and no extra labor
      had devolved on the pumps. This, of course, upset all theories as to there
      having been a readjustment of surface rock, dangerous sometimes, to
      magnetic connections.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then again, no man understood tunnel construction better than Henry
      MacFarlane, C.E., Member of the American Society of Engineers, Fellow of
      the Institute of Sciences, etc., etc. Nor was there ever an engineer more
      careful of his men. Indeed, it was his boast that he had never lost a life
      by a premature discharge in the twenty years of his experience. Nor did
      the men, those who worked under him&mdash;those who escaped alive&mdash;come
      to any definite conclusion as to the cause of the catastrophe: the night
      and day gang, I mean,&mdash;those who breathed the foul air, who had felt
      the chill of the clammy interior and who were therefore familiar with the
      handling of explosives and the proper tamping of the charges&mdash;a slip
      of the steel meaning instantaneous annihilation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Beast knew and could tell if he chose.
    </p>
    <p>
      I say &ldquo;The Beast,&rdquo; for that is what MacFarlane's tunnel was to me. To the
      passer-by and to the expert, it was, of course, merely a short cut through
      the steep hills flanking one end of the huge &ldquo;earth fill&rdquo; which MacFarlane
      was constructing across the Corklesville brook, and which, when completed
      would form a road-bed for future trains; but to me it was always The
      Beast.
    </p>
    <p>
      This illusion was helped by its low-browed, rocky head, crouching close to
      the end of the &ldquo;fill,&rdquo; its length concealed in the clefts of the rocks&mdash;as
      if lying in wait for whatever crossed its path&mdash;as well as its
      ragged, half-round, catfish gash of a mouth from out of which poured at
      regular intervals a sickening breath&mdash;yellow, blue, greenish often&mdash;and
      from which, too, often came dulled explosions, followed by belchings of
      debris which centipedes of cars dragged clear of its slimy lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      So I reiterate, The Beast knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day the gang had bored and pounded and wrenched, piercing his body
      with nervous, nagging drills; propping up his backbone, cutting out tender
      bits of flesh, carving&mdash;bracing&mdash;only to carve again. He had
      tried to wriggle and twist, but the mountain had held him fast. Once he
      had straightened out, smashing the tiny cars and the tugging locomotive;
      breaking a leg and an arm, and once a head, but the devils had begun
      again, boring and digging and the cruel wound was opened afresh. Another
      time, after a big rain, with the help of some friendly rocks who had
      rushed down to his help, he had snapped his jaws tight shut, penning the
      devils up inside, but a hundred others had wrenched them open, breaking
      his teeth, shoring up his lips with iron beams, tearing out what was left
      of his tongue. He could only sulk now, breathing hard and grunting when
      the pain was unbearable. One thought comforted him, and one only: Far back
      in his bulk he knew of a thin place in his hide,&mdash;so thin, owing to a
      dip in the contour of the hill,&mdash;that but a few yards of overlying
      rock and earth lay between it and the free air.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here his tormentors had stopped; why, he could not tell until he began to
      keep tally of what had passed his mouth: The long trains of cars had
      ceased; so had the snorting locomotives; so had the steam drills.
      Curious-looking boxes and kegs were being passed in, none of which ever
      came back; men with rolls of paper on which were zigzag markings stumbled
      inside, stayed an hour and stumbled out again; these men wore no lamps in
      their hats and were better dressed than the others. Then a huge wooden
      drum wrapped with wire was left overnight outside his lips and unrolled
      the next morning, every yard of it being stretched so far down his throat
      that he lost all track of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the following morning work of every kind ceased; not a man with a lamp
      anywhere&mdash;and these The Beast hated most; that is, none that he could
      see or feel. After an hour or more the head man arrived and with two
      others went inside. The head man was tall and fair, had gray side whiskers
      and wore a slouch hat; the second man was straight and well built, with a
      boyish face tanned by the weather. The third man was short and fat: this
      one carried a plan. Behind the three walked five other men.
    </p>
    <p>
      All were talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The dip is to the eastward,&rdquo; the head man said. &ldquo;The uplift ought to
      clear things so we won't have to handle the stuff twice. Hard to rig
      derricks on that slope. Let's have powder enough, anyhow, Bolton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fat man nodded and consulted his plan with the help of his
      eye-glasses. Then the three men and the five men passed in out of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Beast was sure now. The men were going to blow out the side of the
      hill where his hide was thinnest so as to make room for an air-shaft.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour later a gang in charge of a red-shirted foreman who were shifting
      a section of toy track on the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; felt the earth shake under them. Then
      came a dull roar followed by a cloud of yellow smoke mounting skyward from
      an opening high up on the hillside. Flashing through this cloud leaped
      tongues of flame intermingled with rocks and splintered trees. From the
      tunnel's mouth streamed a thin, steel-colored gas that licked its way
      along the upper edges of the opening and was lost in the underbrush
      fringing its upper lip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that?&rdquo; muttered the red-shirted foreman&mdash;&ldquo;that ain't no blast&mdash;My
      God!&mdash;they're blowed up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sprang on a car and waved his arms with all his might: &ldquo;Drop them
      shovels! Git to the tunnel, every man of ye: here,&mdash;this way!&rdquo; and he
      plunged on, the men scrambling after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Beast was a magnet now, drawing everything to its mouth. Gangs of men
      swarmed up the side of the hill; stumbling, falling; picking themselves up
      only to stumble and fall again. Down the railroad tracks swept a repair
      squad who had been straightening a switch, their foreman in the lead. From
      out of the cabins bareheaded women and children ran screaming.
    </p>
    <p>
      The end of the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; nearest the tunnel was now black with people; those
      nearest to the opening were shielding their faces from the deadly gas. The
      roar of voices was incessant; some shouted from sheer excitement; others
      broke into curses, shaking their fists at The Beast; blaming the
      management. All about stood shivering women with white faces, some chewing
      the corners of their shawls in their agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a cry clearer than the others soared above the heads of the
      terror-stricken mob as a rescue gang made ready to enter the tunnel:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Water! Water! Get a bucket, some of ye! Ye can't live in that smoke yet!
      Tie your mouth up if you're going in! Wet it, damn ye!&mdash;do ye want to
      be choked stiff!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shrill voice now cut the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the boss and the clerk and Mr. Bolton that's catched!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and a gang from the big shanty; I seen 'em goin' in,&rdquo; shouted
      back the red-shirted foreman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The volunteers&mdash;big, brawny men, who, warned by the foreman, had been
      binding wet cloths over their mouths, now sprang forward, peering into the
      gloom. Then the sound of footsteps was heard&mdash;nearer&mdash;nearer.
      Groping through the blue haze stumbled a man, his shirt sleeve shielding
      his mouth. On he came, staggering from side to side, reached the edge of
      the mouth and pitched head-foremost as the fresh air filled his lungs. A
      dozen hands dragged him clear. It was Bolton.
    </p>
    <p>
      His clothes were torn and scorched; his face blackened; his left hand
      dripping blood. Two of the shanty gang were next hauled out and laid on
      the back of an overturned dirt car. They had been near the mouth when the
      explosion came, and throwing themselves flat had crawled toward the
      opening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton was still unconscious, but the two shanty men gasped out the
      terrible facts: &ldquo;The boss and the clerk, was jes' starting out when
      everything let go&rdquo;; they choked; &ldquo;ther' ain't nothing left of the other
      men. We passed the boss and the clerk; they was blowed agin a car; the
      boss was stove up, the clerk was crawlin' toward him. They'll never git
      out alive: none on 'em. We fellers was jes' givin' up when we see the
      daylight and heared you a-yellin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A hush now fell on the mass of people, broken by the piercing shriek of a
      woman,&mdash;the wife of a shanty man. She would have rushed in had not
      some one held her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton sat up, gazing stupidly about him. Part of the story of the escaped
      men had reached his ears. He struggled to his feet and staggerd toward the
      opening of the tunnel. The red-shirted foreman caught him under the
      armpits and whirled him back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That ain't no place for you!&rdquo; he cried&mdash;&ldquo;I'll go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A muffled cry was heard. It came from a bystander lying flat on his belly
      inside the mouth: he had crawled in as far as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here they come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      New footfalls grew distinct, whether one or more the listeners could not
      make out. Under the shouts of the red-shirted foreman to give them air,
      the throng fell back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of the grimy smoke two figures slowly loomed up; one carried the other
      on his back; whether shanty men or not, no one could tell.
    </p>
    <p>
      The crowd, no longer controlled by the foreman, surged about the opening.
      Ready hands were held out, but the man carrying his comrade waved them
      aside and staggered on, one hand steadying his load, the other hanging
      loose. The big foreman started to rush in, but stopped. Something in the
      burdened man's eye had checked him, it was as if a team were straining up
      a steep hill, making any halt fatal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the boss and the clerk!&rdquo; shouted the foreman. &ldquo;Fall back, men,&mdash;fall
      back, damn ye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man came straight on, reached the lips of the opening, lunged heavily
      to the right, tried to steady his burden and fell headlong.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV
    </h2>
    <p>
      The street lamps were already lighted on the following afternoon&mdash;when
      Ruth, with Peter and Miss Felicia, alighted at the small station of
      Corklesville. All through the day she had gone over in her mind the words
      of the despatch:
    </p>
    <p>
      Explosion in tunnel. MacFarlane hurt&mdash;serious&mdash;will recover.
      Break news gently to daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bolton Asst. Engineer
    </p>
    <p>
      Other despatches had met the party on the way down; one saying, &ldquo;No
      change,&rdquo; signed by the trained nurse, and a second one from Bolton in
      answer to one of Peter's: &ldquo;Three men killed&mdash;others escaped.
      MacFarlane's operation successful. Explosion premature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their anxiety only increased: Why hadn't Jack telegraphed? Why leave it to
      Bolton? Why was there no word of him,&mdash;and yet how could Bolton have
      known that Peter was with Ruth, except from young Breen. In this mortal
      terror Peter had wired from Albany: &ldquo;Is Breen hurt?&rdquo; but no answer had
      been received at Poughkeepsie. There had not been time for it, perhaps,
      but still there was no answer, nor had his name been mentioned in any of
      the other telegrams. That in itself was ominous.
    </p>
    <p>
      This same question Ruth had asked herself a dozen times. Jack was to have
      had charge of the battery&mdash;he had told her so. Was he one of the
      killed?&mdash;why didn't somebody tell her?&mdash;why hadn't Mr. Bolton
      said something?&mdash;why&mdash;why&mdash;Then the picture of her father's
      mangled body would rise before her and all thought of Jack pass out of her
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the train rolled into the grimy station she was the first to spring
      from the car; she knew the way best, and the short cut from the station to
      where her father lay. Her face was drawn; her eyes bloodshot from
      restrained tears&mdash;all the color gone from her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bring Aunt Felicia, Uncle Peter,&mdash;and the bags;&mdash;I will go
      ahead,&rdquo; she said, tying her veil so as to shield her face. &ldquo;No, I won't
      wait for anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      News of Ruth's expected arrival had reached the village, and the crowd at
      the station had increased. On its inner circle, close to a gate leading
      from the platform, stood a young man in a slouch hat, with his left wrist
      bandaged. The arm had hung in a sling until the train rolled in, then the
      silk support had been slipped and hidden in his pocket. Under the slouch
      hat, the white edge of a bandage was visible which the wearer vainly tried
      to conceal by pulling the hat further on his head,&mdash;this subterfuge
      also concealed a dark scar on his temple. Whenever the young man pressed
      closer to the gate, the crowd would fall back as if to give him room. Now
      and then one would come up, grab his well hand and pat his shoulder
      approvingly. He seemed to be as much an object of interest as the daughter
      of the injured boss.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ruth gained the gate the wounded man laid his fingers on her gloved
      wrist. The girl started back, peered into his face, and uttered a cry of
      relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Breen!&rdquo; For one wild moment a spirit of overwhelming joy welled up in
      her heart and shone out of her eyes. Thank God he was not dead!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Ruth,&mdash;what is left of me. I wanted to see you as soon as
      you reached here. You must not be alarmed about your father.&rdquo; The voice
      did not sound like Jack's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he worse? Tell me quick!&rdquo; she exclaimed, the old fear confronting her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. He is all right,&rdquo; he wheezed, &ldquo;and is going to get well. His left arm
      is broken and his head badly cut, but he is out of danger. The doctor told
      me so an hour ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you?&rdquo; she pleaded, clinging to his proffered hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I am all right, too. The smoke got into my throat so I croak, but
      that is nothing. Why, Mr. Grayson,&mdash;and Miss Felicia! I am so glad,
      Miss Ruth, that you did not have to come alone! This way, everybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without other words they hurried into the carriage, driving like mad for
      the cottage, a mile away; all the worn look gone from Ruth's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you're not hurt, my boy?&rdquo; asked Peter in a trembling voice&mdash;Jack's
      well hand in his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, only a few scratches, sir; that's all. Bolton's hand's in a bad way,
      though; lose two of his fingers, I'm afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how did you escape?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. I got out the best way I could. First thing I knew I was
      lying on the grass and some one was pouring water over my head; then they
      got me home and put me to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And MacFarlane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he came along with me. I had to help him some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter heaved a sigh of relief, then he asked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did it happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody knows. One of the shanty men might have dropped a box of
      fulminates. Poor fellow,&mdash;he never knew; they could find nothing of
      him,&rdquo; Jack whispered behind his hand so Ruth would not hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But when did you get out of bed?&rdquo; continued Peter. He was less anxious
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked at Ruth and again lowered his voice; the sound of the carriage
      preventing its hoarse notes from reaching her ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About half an hour ago, sir; they don't know I have gone, but I didn't
      want anybody to frighten Miss Ruth. I don't look so bad, do I? I fixed
      myself up as well as I could. I have got on Bolton's hat; I couldn't get
      mine over the bandages. My wrist is the worst&mdash;sprained badly, the
      doctor says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Ruth heard she made no answer, nor did she speak during the ride. Now
      and then she would gaze out of the window and once her fingers tightened
      on Miss Felicia's arm as she passed in full view of the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; with the
      gaping mouth of the tunnel beyond. Miss Felicia was occupied in watching
      Jack. In fact, she had not taken her eyes from him since they entered the
      carriage. She saw what neither Peter nor Ruth had seen;&mdash;that the boy
      was suffering intensely from hidden wounds and that the strain was so
      great he was verging on a collapse. No telling what these foolish
      Southerners will do, she said to herself, when a woman is to be looked
      after,&mdash;but she said nothing of all this to Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the carriage stopped and Ruth with a spring leaped from her seat and
      bounded upstairs to her father's bedside, Miss Felicia holding Jack's
      hand, her eyes reading the boy's face, turned and said to Peter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you take him home where he belongs and put him to bed; and don't you
      let him get up until I see him. No&mdash;&rdquo; she continued in a more decided
      tone, in answer to Jack's protest&mdash;&ldquo;I won't have it. You go to bed
      just as I tell you&mdash;you can hardly stand now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I had better, Miss Felicia. I am a little shaky,&rdquo; replied Jack,
      in a faint voice, and the carriage kept on its way to Mrs. Hicks's leaving
      the good lady on MacFarlane's porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane was asleep when Ruth, trembling with excitement, reached the
      house. Outside the sick room, lighted by a single taper, she met the nurse
      whose few hurried words, spoken with authority, calmed her, as Jack had
      been unable to do, and reassured her mind. &ldquo;Compound fracture of the right
      arm, Miss,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;and badly bruised about the head, as they all
      were. Poor Mr. Breen was the worst.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth looked at her in astonishment. That was why he had not lifted his
      hat, she thought to herself, as she tiptoed into the sick room and sank to
      her knees beside her father's bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The injured man opened his eyes, and his free hand moved slowly till it
      rested on his daughter's head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got an awful crack, Ruth, but I am all right now. Too bad to bring you
      home. Who came with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Felicia and Uncle Peter,&rdquo; she whispered as she stroked his uninjured
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mighty good of them&mdash;just like old Peter. Send the old boy up&mdash;I
      want to see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth made no answer; her heart was too full. That her father was alive was
      enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not pretty to look at, am I, child, but I'll pull out; I have been
      hurt before&mdash;had a leg broken once in the Virginia mountains when you
      were a baby. The smoke was the worst; I swallowed a lot of it; and I am
      sore now all over my chest. Poor Bolton's badly crippled, I hear&mdash;and
      Breen&mdash;they've told you about Breen, haven't they, daughter?&rdquo; His
      voice rose as he mentioned the boy's name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I wouldn't be here but for him! He's a plucky boy. I will never
      forget him for it; you mustn't either,&rdquo; he continued in a more positive
      tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nurse now moved to the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not talk any more, Mr. MacFarlane. Miss Ruth is going to be at
      home now right along and she will hear the story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I won't, nurse, if you don't want me to&mdash;but they won't be
      able to tell her what a fix we were in&mdash;I remember everything up to
      the time Breen dragged me from under the dirt car. I knew right away what
      had happened and what we had to do; I've been there before, but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&mdash;that will do, Mr. MacFarlane,&rdquo; interrupted the nurse. &ldquo;Come,
      Miss Ruth, suppose you go to your room for a while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl rose to her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can come back as soon as I fix your father for the night.&rdquo; She
      pointed significantly to the patient's head, whispering, &ldquo;He must not get
      excited.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear daddy&mdash;I will come back just as soon as I can get the dust
      out of my hair and get brushed up a little,&rdquo; cried Ruth bravely, in the
      effort to hide her anxiety, &ldquo;and then Aunt Felicia is downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once outside she drew the nurse, who had followed her, to the window so as
      to be out of hearing of the patient and then asked breathlessly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did Mr. Breen do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know exactly, but everybody is talking about him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment Miss Felicia arrived at the top of the stairs: she had
      heard Ruth's question and had caught the dazed expression on the girl's
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you, my dear, what he did, for I have heard every word of it
      from the servants. The blast went off before he and your father had
      reached the opening of the tunnel. They left your father for dead, then
      John Breen crawled back on his hands and knees through the dreadful smoke
      until he reached him, lifted him up on his shoulders and carried him out
      alive. That's what he did; and he is a big, fine, strong, noble fellow,
      and I am going to tell him so the moment I get my eyes on him. And that is
      not all. He got out of bed this afternoon, though he could hardly stand,
      and covered up all his bruises and his broken wrist so you couldn't see
      them, and then he limped down to the station so you would get the truth
      about your father and not be frightened. And now he is in a dead faint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth's eyes flamed and the color left her cheeks. She stretched out both
      hands as if to keep from falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saved daddy!&rdquo; she gasped&mdash;&ldquo;Carried him out on&mdash;Oh! Aunt
      Felicia!&mdash;and I have been so mean! To think he got up out of bed and&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
       Everything swam before her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia sprang forward and caught her in her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&mdash;none of this, Child. Pull yourself together right away. Get
      her some water, nurse,&mdash;she has stood all she can. There now, dearie&mdash;&rdquo;
       Ruth's head was on her breast now. &ldquo;There&mdash;there&mdash;Such a poor
      darling, and so many things coming all at once. There, darling, put your
      head on my shoulder and cry it all out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl sobbed on, the wrinkled hand patting her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but you don't know, aunty&mdash;&rdquo; she crooned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but I do&mdash;you blessed child. I know it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And won't somebody go and help him? He is all alone, he told me so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle Peter is with him, dearie.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;but some one who can&mdash;&rdquo; she straightened up&mdash;&ldquo;I will
      go, aunty&mdash;I will go now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will do nothing of the kind, you little goose; you will stay just
      where you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, won't you go, then? Oh, please&mdash;please&mdash;aunty.&rdquo; Peter's
      bald head now rose above the edge of the banisters. Miss Felicia motioned
      him to go back, but Ruth heard his step and raised her tear-drenched face
      half hidden in her dishevelled hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Uncle Peter, is Jack&mdash;is Mr. Breen&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia's warning face behind Ruth's own, for once reached Peter in
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In his bed and covered up, and his landlady, Mrs. Hicks, sitting beside
      him,&rdquo; responded Peter in his cheeriest tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he fainted from pain&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but that's all over now, my dear,&rdquo; broke in Miss Felicia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will go, anyhow&mdash;won't you, aunty?&rdquo; pleaded Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly&mdash;just as soon as I put you to bed, and that is just where
      you have got to go this very minute,&rdquo; and she led the overwrought
      trembling girl into her room and shut the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter stood for an instant looking about him, his mind taking in the
      situation. Ruth was being cared for now, and so was MacFarlane&mdash;the
      white cap and apron of the noiseless nurse passing in and out of the room
      in which he lay, assured him of that. Bolton, too, in the room next to
      Jack's, was being looked after by his sister who had just arrived. He,
      too, was fairly comfortable, though a couple of his fingers had been
      shortened. But there was nobody to look after Jack&mdash;no father,
      mother, sister&mdash;nobody. To send for the boy's uncle, or Corinne, or
      his aunt, was out of the question, none of them having had more than a
      word with him since his departure. Yet Jack needed attention. The doctor
      had just pulled him out of one fainting spell only to have him collapse
      again when his coat was taken off, and the bandages were loosened. He was
      suffering greatly and was by no means out of danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      If for the next hour or two there was anything to be done at MacFarlane's,
      Peter was ready to do it, but this accomplished, he would shoulder his bag
      and camp out for the night beside the boy's bed. He had come, indeed, to
      tell Felicia so, and he meant to sleep there whatever her protests. He was
      preparing himself for her objections, when she reentered the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is young Breen?&rdquo; Miss Felicia asked in a whisper, closing the door
      behind her. She had put Ruth to bed, where she had again given way to an
      uncontrollable fit of weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty weak. The doctor is with him now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did the fool get up for?&rdquo; She did not mean to surrender too quickly
      about Jack despite his heroism&mdash;not to Peter, at any rate. Then,
      again, she half suspected that Ruth's tears were equally divided between
      the rescuer and the rescued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He couldn't help it, I suppose,&rdquo; answered Peter, with a gleam in his eyes&mdash;&ldquo;he
      was born that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Born! What stuff, Peter&mdash;no man of any common-sense would have&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quite agree with you, my dear&mdash;no man except a gentleman. There is
      no telling what one of that kind might do under such circumstances.&rdquo; And
      with a wave of his hand and a twinkle in his merry scotch-terrier eyes,
      the old fellow disappeared below the handrail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia leaned over the banisters:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peter, PETER,&rdquo; she called after him, &ldquo;where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To stay all night with Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's the most sensible thing I have heard of yet. Will you take
      him a message from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter looked up: &ldquo;Yes, Felicia, what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give him my love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia kept her promise to Ruth. Before that young woman, indeed,
      tired out with anxiety, had opened her beautiful eyes the next morning and
      pushed back her beautiful hair from her beautiful face&mdash;and it was
      still beautiful, despite all the storms it had met and weathered, the
      energetic, old lady had presented herself at the front door of Mrs.
      Hicks's Boarding Hotel (it was but a step from MacFarlane's) and had sent
      her name to the young man in the third floor back.
    </p>
    <p>
      A stout person, with a head of adjustable hair held in place by a band of
      black velvet skewered by a gold pin, the whole surmounted by a flaring
      mob-cap of various hues and dyes, looked Miss Felicia all over and replied
      in a dubious tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's had a bad mash-up, and I don't think&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite aware of it, my dear madam, or I would not be here. Now,
      please show me the way to Mr. Breen's room&mdash;my brother was here last
      night and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the bald-headed gentleman?&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Hicks. &ldquo;Such a dear, kind
      man; and it was as much as I could do to get him to bed and he a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Miss Felicia was already inside the sitting-room, her critical eyes
      noting its bare, forbidding furnishing and appointment&mdash;she had not
      yet let down her skirts, the floor not being inviting. As each article
      passed in review&mdash;the unsteady rocking-chairs upholstered in
      haircloth and protected by stringy tidies, the disconsolate, almost
      bottomless lounge, fly-specked brass clock and mantel ornaments, she could
      not but recall the palatial entrance, drawing-room, and boudoir into which
      Parkins had ushered her on that memorable afternoon when she had paid a
      visit to Mrs. Arthur Breen&mdash;(her &ldquo;last visit&rdquo; the old lady would say
      with a sly grimace at Holker, who had never forgiven &ldquo;that pirate, Breen,&rdquo;
       for robbing Gilbert of his house).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is what this idiot has got in exchange,&rdquo; she said to herself as
      she peered into the dining-room beyond, with its bespattered table-cloth
      flanked by cheap china plates and ivory napkin rings&mdash;the castors
      mounting guard at either end.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entrance of the lady with the transferable hair cut short her revery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Breen says come up, ma'am,&rdquo; she said in a subdued voice. It was
      astonishing how little time it took for Miss Felicia's personality to have
      its effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up the uncarpeted stairs marched the great lady, down an equally bare hall
      lined on either side by bedroom doors, some marked by unblacked shoes
      others by tin trays holding fragments of late or early breakfasts, the
      flaring cap obsequiously pointing the way until the two had reached a door
      at the end of the corridor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I won't bother you any more,&rdquo; said Miss Felicia. &ldquo;Thank you very
      much. Are you in here Mr. Breen?&rdquo; she called in a cheery voice as she
      pushed open the door, and advanced to his bedside:&mdash;&ldquo;Oh, you poor
      fellow! Oh, I AM so sorry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy lay on a cot-bed pushed close to the wall. His face was like
      chalk; his eyes deep set in his head; his scalp one criss-cross of
      bandages, and his right hand and wrist a misshapen lump of cotton wadding
      and splints.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, don't move. Why, you did not look as bad as this yesterday,&rdquo; she
      added in sympathetic tones, patting his free hand with her own, her glance
      wandering over the cramped little room with its meagre appointments.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack smiled faintly and a light gleamed in his eyes. The memory of
      yesterday evidently brought no regrets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dared not look any other way,&rdquo; he answered faintly; &ldquo;I was so afraid of
      alarming Miss Ruth.&rdquo; Then after a pause in which the smile and the gleam
      flickered over his pain-tortured face, he added in a more determined
      voice: &ldquo;I am glad I went, though the doctor was furious. He says it was
      the worst thing I could have done&mdash;and thought I ought to have had
      sense enough to&mdash;But don't let's talk any more about it, Miss
      Felicia. It was so good of you to come. Mr. Grayson has just left. You'd
      think he was a woman, he is so gentle and tender. But I'll be around in a
      day or two, and as soon as I can get on my feet and look less like a
      scarecrow than I do, I am coming over to see you and Miss Ruth and&mdash;yes,
      and UNCLE PETER&mdash;&rdquo; Miss Felicia arched her eyebrows: &ldquo;Oh, you needn't
      look!&mdash;that's what I am going to call him after this; we settled all
      that last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile overspread Miss Felicia's face. &ldquo;Uncle Peter, is it? And I suppose
      you will be calling me Aunt Felicia next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack turned his eyes: &ldquo;That was just what I was trying to screw up my
      courage to do. Please let me, won't you?&rdquo; Again Miss Felicia lifted her
      eyebrows, but she did not say she would.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Ruth&mdash;what do you intend to call that young lady? Of course,
      without her permission, as that seems to be the fashion.&rdquo; And the old
      lady's eyes danced in restrained merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sufferer's face became suddenly grave; for an instant he did not
      answer, then he said slowly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what can I call her except Miss Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia laughed. Nothing was so delicious as a love affair which she
      could see into. This boy's heart was an open book. Besides, this kind of
      talk would take his mind from his miseries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but I am not so sure of that,&rdquo; she rejoined, in an encouraging tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      A light broke out in Jack's eyes: &ldquo;You mean that she WOULD let me call her&mdash;call
      her Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't mean anything of the kind, you foolish fellow. You have got to
      ask her yourself; but there's no telling what she would not do for you
      now, she's so grateful to you for saving her father's life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I did not,&rdquo; he exclaimed, an expression as of acute pain crossing his
      brows. &ldquo;I only helped him along. But she must not be grateful. I don't
      like the word. Gratitude hasn't got anything to do with&mdash;&rdquo; he did not
      finish the sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you DID save his life, and you know it, and I just love you for it,&rdquo;
       she insisted, ignoring his criticism as she again smoothed his hand. &ldquo;You
      did a fine, noble act, and I am proud of you and I came to tell you so.&rdquo;
       Then she added suddenly: &ldquo;You received my message last night, didn't you?
      Now, don't tell me that that good-for-nothing Peter forgot it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he gave it to me, and it was so kind of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then I forgive him. And now,&rdquo; here she made a little salaam with
      both her hands&mdash;&ldquo;now you have Ruth's message.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have what?&rdquo; he asked in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ruth's message.&rdquo; She still kept her face straight although her lips
      quivered with merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack tried to lift his head: &ldquo;What is her message?&rdquo; he asked with
      expectant eyes&mdash;perhaps she had sent him a letter!
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia tapped her bosom with her forefinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;ME!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I am her message. She was so worried last night when she
      found out how ill you were that I promised her to come and comfort you;
      that is why it is ME. And now, don't you think you ought to get down on
      your knees and thank her? Why, you don't seem a bit pleased!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she sent you to me&mdash;because&mdash;because&mdash;she was GRATEFUL
      that I saved her father's life?&rdquo; he asked in a bewildered tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course&mdash;why shouldn't she be; is there anything else you can give
      her she would value as much as her father's life, you conceited young
      Jackanapes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had the pin through the butterfly now and was watching it squirm; not
      maliciously&mdash;she was never malicious. He would get over the prick,
      she knew. It might help him in the end, really.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I suppose not,&rdquo; he replied simply, as he sank back on his pillow and
      turned his bruised face toward the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some moments he lay in deep thought. The last half-hour in the arbor
      under the palms came back to him; the tones of Ruth's voice; the casual
      way in which she returned his devouring glance. She didn't love him; never
      had loved him; wouldn't ever love him. Anybody could carry another fellow
      out on his back; was done every day by firemen and life-savers,&mdash;everybody,
      in fact, who happened to be around when their services were most needed.
      Grateful! Of course the rescued people and their friends were grateful
      until they forgot all about it, as they were sure to do the next day, or
      week, or month. Gratitude was not what he wanted. It was love. That was
      the way he felt; that was the way he would always feel. He who loved every
      hair on Ruth's beautiful head, loved her wonderful hands, loved her
      darling feet, loved the very ground on which she walked &ldquo;Gratitude!&rdquo; eh!
      That was the word his uncle had used the day he slammed the door of his
      private office in his face. &ldquo;Common gratitude, damn you, Jack, ought to
      put more sense in your head,&rdquo; as though one ought to have been &ldquo;grateful&rdquo;
       for a seat at a gambling table and two rooms in a house supported by its
      profits. Garry had said &ldquo;gratitude,&rdquo; too, and so had Corinne, and all the
      rest of them. Peter had never talked gratitude; dear Peter, who had done
      more for him than anybody in the world except his own father. Peter wanted
      his love if he wanted anything, and that was what he was going to give him&mdash;big,
      broad, all-absorbing LOVE. And he did love him. Even his wrinkled hands,
      so soft and white, and his glistening head, and his dabs of gray whiskers,
      and his sweet, firm, human mouth were precious to him. Peter&mdash;his
      friend, his father, his comrade! Could he ever insult him by such a mean,
      cowardly feeling as gratitude? And was the woman he loved as he loved
      nothing else in life&mdash;was she&mdash;was Ruth going to belittle their
      relations with the same substitute? It was a big pin, that which Miss
      Felicia had impaled him on, and it is no wonder the poor fluttering wings
      were nigh exhausted in the struggle!
    </p>
    <p>
      Relief came at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now what shall I tell her?&rdquo; asked Miss Felicia. &ldquo;She worries more
      over you than she does over her father; she can get hold of him any
      minute, but you won't be presentable for a week. Come, what shall I tell
      her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack shifted his shoulders so that he could move the easier and with less
      pain, and raised himself on his well elbow. There was no use of his hoping
      any more; she had evidently sent Miss Felicia to end the matter with one
      of her polite phrases,&mdash;a weapon which she, of all women, knew so
      well how to use.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give Miss Ruth my kindest regards,&rdquo; he said in a low voice, still husky
      from the effects of the smoke and the strain of the last half-hour&mdash;&ldquo;and
      say how thankful I am for her gratitude, and&mdash;No,&mdash;don't tell
      her anything of the kind. I don't know what you are to tell her.&rdquo; The
      words seemed to die in his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she will ask me, and I have got to say something. Come,&mdash;out
      with it.&rdquo; Her eyes were still on his face; not a beat of his wings or a
      squirm of his body had she missed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well just say how glad I am she is at home again and that her father is
      getting on so well, and tell her I will be up and around in a day or two,
      and that I am not a bit worse off for going to the station yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;unless you can think of something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I do shall I add it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&mdash;then I know exactly what to do,&mdash;it will be something like
      this: 'Please, Ruth, take care of your precious self, and don't be worried
      about me or anything else, and remember that every minute I am away from
      you is misery, for I love you to distraction and&mdash;'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Miss Felicia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;none of your protests, sir!&rdquo; she laughed. &ldquo;That is just what I
      am going to tell her. And now don't you dare to move till Peter comes
      back,&rdquo; and with a toss of her aristocratic head the dear lady left the
      room, closing the door behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so our poor butterfly was left flat against the wall&mdash;all his
      flights ended. No more roaming over honeysuckles, drinking in the honey of
      Ruth's talk; no more soaring up into the blue, the sunshine of hope
      dazzling his wings. It made no difference what Miss Felicia might say to
      Ruth. It was what she had said to HIM which made him realize the absurdity
      of all his hopes. Everything that he had longed for, worked for, dreamed
      about, was over now&mdash;the long walks in the garden, her dear hand in
      his, even the song of the choir boys, and the burst of joyous music as
      they passed out of the church door only to enter their own for life. All
      this was gone&mdash;never to return&mdash;never had existed, in fact,
      except in his own wild imagination. And once more the disheartened boy
      turned his tired pain-racked face toward the bare wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia tripped downstairs with an untroubled air, extended two
      fingers to Mrs. Hicks, and without more ado passed out into the morning
      air. No thought of the torment she had inflicted affected the dear woman.
      What were pins made for except to curb the ambitious wings of flighty
      young men who were soaring higher than was good for them. She would let
      him know that Ruth was a prize not to be too easily won, especially by
      penniless young gentlemen, however brave and heroic they might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly had she crossed the dreary village street encumbered with piles of
      half-melted snow and mud, than she espied Peter picking his way toward
      her, his silk hat brushed to a turn, his gray surtout buttoned close,
      showing but the edge of his white silk muffler, his carefully rolled
      umbrella serving as a divining rod the better to detect the water holes.
      No one who met him and looked into his fresh, rosy face, or caught the
      merry twinkle of his eyes, would ever have supposed he had been pouring
      liniment over broken arms and bandaged fingers until two o'clock in the
      morning of the night before. It had only been when Bolton's sister had
      discovered an empty &ldquo;cell,&rdquo; as Jack called the bedroom next to his, that
      he had abandoned his intention of camping out on Jack's disheartened
      lounge, and had retired like a gentleman carrying with him all his toilet
      articles, ready to be set out in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long before that time he had captured everybody in the place: from Mrs.
      Hicks, who never dreamed that such a well of tenderness over suffering
      could exist in an old fellow's heart, down to the freckled-faced boy who
      came for his muddy shoes and who, after a moment's talk with Peter as to
      how they should be polished, retired later in the firm belief that they
      belonged to &ldquo;a gent way up in G,&rdquo; as he expressed it, he never having
      waited on &ldquo;the likes of him before.&rdquo; As to Bolton, he thought he was the
      &ldquo;best ever,&rdquo; and as to his prim, patient sister who had closed her school
      to be near her brother&mdash;she declared to Mrs. Hicks five minutes after
      she had laid her eyes on him, that Mr. Breen's uncle was &ldquo;just too dear
      for anything,&rdquo;&mdash;to which the lady with the movable hair and mob-cap
      not only agreed, but added the remark of her own, &ldquo;that folks like him was
      a sight better than the kind she was a-gettin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All these happenings of the night and early hours of this bright,
      beautiful morning&mdash;and it was bright and sunny overhead despite the
      old fellow's precautionary umbrella&mdash;had helped turn out the spick
      and span gentleman who was now making his way carefully over the unpaved
      road which stood for Corklesville's principal street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia saw him first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! there you are!&rdquo; she cried before he could raise his eyes. &ldquo;Did you
      ever see anything so disgraceful as this crossing&mdash;not a plank&mdash;nothing.
      No&mdash;get out of my way, Peter; you will just upset me, and I would
      rather help myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In reply Peter, promptly ignoring her protest, stepped in front of her,
      poked into several fraudulent solidities covering unfathomable depths,
      found one hard enough to bear the weight of Miss Felicia's dainty shoe&mdash;it
      was about as long as a baby's hand&mdash;and holding out his own said, in
      his most courtly manner:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be very careful now, my dear: put your foot on mine; so! now give me your
      hand and jump. There&mdash;that's it.&rdquo; To see Peter help a lady across a
      muddy street, Holker Morris always said, was a lesson in all the finer
      virtues. Sir Walter was a bungler beside him. But then Miss Felicia could
      also have passed muster as the gay gallant's companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      And just here the Scribe remarks, parenthetically, that there is nothing
      that shows a woman's refinement more clearly than the way she crosses a
      street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia, for instance, would no more have soiled the toes of her
      shoes in a puddle than a milk-white pussy would have dampened its feet in
      the splash of an overturned bowl: a calm survey up and down; a taking in
      of the dry and wet spots; a careful gathering up of her skirts, and over
      skimmed the slender, willowy old lady with a one&mdash;two&mdash;and three&mdash;followed
      by a stamp of her absurd feet and the shaking out of ruffle and pleat.
      When a woman strides through mud without a shiver because she has plenty
      of dry shoes and good ones at home, there are other parts of her make-up,
      inside and out, that may want a looking after.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia safely landed on the dry and comparatively clean sidewalk,
      Peter put the question he had been framing in his mind since he first
      caught sight of that lady picking her way among the puddles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, how is he now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His head, or his heart?&rdquo; she asked with a knowing smile, dropping her
      still spotless skirts. &ldquo;Both are broken; the last into smithereens. It is
      hopeless. He will never be any better. Oh, Peter, what a mess you have
      made of things!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have I done?&rdquo; he laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got these two people dead in love with each other,&mdash;both of them&mdash;Ruth
      is just as bad&mdash;and no more chance of their ever being married than
      you or I. Perfectly silly, Peter, and I have always told you so&mdash;and
      now you will have to take the consequences.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beautiful&mdash;beautiful!&rdquo; chuckled Peter; &ldquo;everything is coming my way.
      I was sure of Jack, for he told me so, but Ruth puzzled me. Did she tell
      you she loved him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, stupid, of course she did not. But have I not a pair of eyes in my
      head? What do you suppose I got up for this morning at such an unearthly
      hour and went over to&mdash;Oh, such an awful place!&mdash;to see that
      idiot? Just to tell him I was sorry? Not a bit of it! I went to find out
      what was going on, and now I know; and what is to become of it all nobody
      can tell. Here is her father with every penny he has in the world in this
      work&mdash;so Holker tells me&mdash;and here are a lot of damages for dead
      men and Heaven knows what else; and there is Jack Breen with not a penny
      to his name except his month's wages; and here is Ruth who can marry
      anybody she chooses, bewitched by that boy&mdash;and I grant you she has
      every reason for he is as brave as he can be, and what is better he is a
      gentleman. And there lies Henry MacFarlane blind as a bat as to what is
      going on! Oh!&mdash;really, Peter, there cannot be anything more absurd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During the outbreak Peter stood leaning on his umbrella, a smile playing
      over his smooth-shaven face, his eyes snapping as if at some inwardly
      suppressed fun. These were the kind of outbursts Peter loved. It was only
      when Felicia was about to come over to your way of thinking that she
      talked like this. It was her way of hearing the other side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dreadful!&mdash;dreadful!&rdquo; sighed Peter, looking the picture of woe.
      &ldquo;Love in a garret&mdash;everybody in rags,&mdash;one meal a day&mdash;awful
      situation! Something's got to be done at once. I'll begin by taking up a
      collection this very day. In the meantime, Felicia, I'll just keep on to
      Jack's and see how his arm's getting on and his head. As to his heart,&mdash;I'll
      talk to Ruth and see&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you crazy, Peter? You will do nothing of the kind. If you do, I will&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Peter, his hat in the air, was now out of hearing. When he reached the
      mud line he turned, drew his umbrella as if from an imaginary scabbard,
      made a military salute, and, with a suppressed gurgle in his throat, kept
      on to Jack's room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Somehow the sunshine had crept into the old fellow's veins this morning.
      None of Miss Felicia's pins for him!
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth, from her place by the sitting-room window, had seen the two talking
      and had opened the front door, before Miss Felicia's hand touched the
      bell. She had already subjected Peter to a running fire of questions while
      he was taking his coffee and thus had the latest intelligence down to the
      moment when Peter turned low Jack's light and had tucked him in. He was
      asleep when Peter had peered into his cramped room early this morning, and
      the bulletin therefore could go no further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how is he, aunty?&rdquo; Ruth asked in a breathless tone before the front
      door could be closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Getting on splendidly, my dear. Slept pretty well. It is a dreadful place
      for any one to be in, but I suppose he is accustomed to it by this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is he no worse for coming to meet us, Aunt Felicia?&rdquo; Ruth asked, her
      voice betraying her anxiety. She had relieved the old lady of her cloak
      now, and had passed one arm around her slender waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he doesn't seem to be, dearie. Tired, of course&mdash;and it may keep
      him in bed a day or two longer, but it won't make any difference in his
      getting well. He will be out in a week or so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth paused for a moment and then asked in a hesitating way, all her
      sympathy in her eyes:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I don't suppose there is anybody to look after him, is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, plenty: Mrs. Hicks seems a kind, motherly person, and then Mr.
      Bolton's sister runs in and out.&rdquo; It was marvellous how little interest
      the dear woman took in the condition of the patient. Again the girl
      paused. She was sorry now she had not braved everything and gone with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did he send me any message, aunty?&rdquo; This came quite as a matter of
      form&mdash;merely to learn all the details.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes,&mdash;I forgot: he told me to tell you how glad he was to hear
      your father was getting well,&rdquo; replied Miss Felicia searching the mantel
      for a book she had placed there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth bit her lips and a certain dull feeling crept about her heart. Jack,
      with his broken arm and bruised head rose before her. Then another figure
      supplanted it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what sort of a girl is that Miss Bolton?&rdquo; There was no curiosity&mdash;merely
      for information. &ldquo;Uncle Peter was so full of her brother and how badly he
      had been hurt he hardly mentioned her name&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not see her very well; she was just coming out of her brother's
      room, and the hall was dark. Oh, here's my book&mdash;I knew I had left it
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty?&rdquo; continued Ruth, in a slightly anxious tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;I should say not,&rdquo; replied the old lady, moving to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you don't think there is anything I can do?&rdquo; Ruth called after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth picked up Miss Felicia's wrap from the chair where that lady had
      thrown it, mounted the stairs, peered from between the pots of geraniums
      screening a view of the street with the Hicks Hotel dominating one corner,
      wondered which window along the desolate front gave Jack light and air,
      and with whispered instructions to the nurse to be sure and let her know
      when her father awoke, shut herself in her room.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the horrible old ogre who had made all the trouble, nipping off
      buds, skewering butterflies and otherwise disporting herself after the
      manner of busybodies who are eternally and forever poking their thin,
      pointed noses into what doesn't concern them, no hot, scalding tears, the
      Scribe regrets to say, dimmed her knowing eyes, nor did any unbidden sigh
      leap from her old heart. Foolish young people ought to thank her really
      for what she had done&mdash;what she would still try to do&mdash;and they
      would when they were a year older.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor, meddling Miss Felicia! Have you forgotten that night thirty years
      ago when you stood in a darkened room facing a straight, soldierly looking
      man, and listened to the slow dropping of words that scalded your heart
      like molten metal? Have you forgotten, too, the look on his handsome face
      when he uttered his protest at the persistent intermeddling of another,
      and the square of his broad shoulders as he disappeared through the open
      door never to return again?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Some of the sunshine that had helped dry the muddy road, making possible
      the path between Jack's abode and MacFarlane's hired villa&mdash;where
      there was only room for Miss Felicia, Peter still occupying his cell at
      Mrs. Hicks's, but taking his meals with Ruth, so that he could be within
      call of MacFarlane when needed&mdash;some of this same sunshine, I say,
      may have been responsible for the temporary drying up of Ruth's tears and
      the establishing of various ways of communication between two hearts that
      had for some days been floundering in the deeps. Or, perhaps, the rebound
      may have been due to the fact that Peter had whispered something in Jack's
      ear, or that Ruth had overheard Miss Felicia praising Jack's heroism to
      her father&mdash;it was common talk everywhere&mdash;or it may have been
      that the coming of spring which always brings hope and cheer&mdash;making
      old into new, may have led to the general lighting up of the gloom that
      had settled over the house of MacFarlane and its dependents; but certain
      it is that such was the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane began by taking a sudden change for the better&mdash;so decided
      a change that he was out of his room and dressed on the fifth day
      (although half his coat hid his broken arm, tightly bandaged to his side).
      He had even talked as far as the geraniums in the window, through which he
      could not only see Jack's hotel, but the big &ldquo;earth fill&rdquo; and mouth of The
      Beast beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Bolton surprised everybody by appearing outdoors, his hand alone in a
      sling. What was left of the poor shanty men, too, had been buried, the
      dreadful newspaper articles had ceased, and work was again in full blast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack, to be sure, was still in his room, having swallowed more gas and
      smoke than the others, badly scorching his insides, as he had panted under
      the weight of MacFarlane's body. The crisis, however, brought on by his
      imprudence in meeting Ruth at the station, had passed, and even he was
      expected to be out in a few days.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Miss Felicia, although she had blown hot and blown cold on Ruth's
      heart, until that delicate instrument stood at zero one day and at fever
      heat the next, she had, on the whole, kept up an equable temperature, and
      meant to do so until she shook the dust of Corklesville from her dainty
      feet and went back to the clean, moist bricks of her garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as for Peter! Had he not been a continuous joy; cheering everybody;
      telling MacFarlane funny stories until that harassed invalid laughed
      himself, unconscious of the pain to his arm; bringing roses for the prim,
      wizened-up Miss Bolton, that she might have a glimpse of something fresh
      and alive while she sat by her brother's bed. And last, and by no means
      least, had he not the morning he had left for New York, his holiday being
      over, taken Ruth in his arms and putting his lips close to her ear,
      whispered something into its pink shell that had started northern lights
      dancing all over her cheeks and away up to the roots of her hair; and had
      she not given him a good hug and kissed him in return, a thing she had
      never done in her whole life before? And had he not stopped on his way to
      the station for a last hand-shake with Jack and to congratulate him for
      the hundredth time for his plucky rescue of MacFarlane&mdash;a subject he
      never ceased to talk about&mdash;and had he not at the very last moment,
      told Jack every word of what he and Ruth talked about, with all the
      details elaborated, even to the hug, which was no sooner told than another
      set of northern lights got into action at once, and another hug followed;
      only this time it took the form of a hearty hand-shake and a pat on
      Peter's back, followed by a big tear which the boy tried his best to
      conceal? Peter had no theories detrimental to penniless young gentlemen,
      pursued by intermeddling old ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet with all this there was one corner deep down in Ruth's heart so
      overgrown with &ldquo;wonderings&rdquo; and &ldquo;whys,&rdquo; so thick with tangled doubts and
      misgivings, that no cheering ray of certainty had yet been able to pierce
      it. Nor had any one tried. Miss Felicia, good as she was and loving as she
      had been, had done nothing in the pruning way&mdash;that is, nothing which
      would let in any sunshine radiating from Jack. She had talked about him,
      it is true; not to her, we may be sure, but to her father, saying how
      handsome he had grown and what a fine man he was making of himself. She
      had, too, more than once commented&mdash;and this before everybody&mdash;on
      his good manners and his breeding, especially on the way he had received
      her the first morning she called, and to his never apologizing for his
      miserable surroundings, meagre as they were&mdash;just a theodolite, his
      father's portrait and half a dozen books alone being visible, the white
      walls covered with working plans. But when the poor girl had tried to draw
      from her some word that was personal to himself, or one that might become
      personal&mdash;and she did try even to the verge of betraying herself,
      which would never have done&mdash;Miss Felicia had always turned the
      subject at once or had pleaded forgetfulness. Not a word could she drag
      out of this very perverse and determined old lady concerning the state of
      the patient, nothing except that he was &ldquo;better,&rdquo; or &ldquo;doing nicely,&rdquo; or
      that the bandage was being shortened, or some other commonplace. Uncle
      Peter had been kinder. He understood&mdash;she saw that in his eyes. Still
      even Uncle Peter had not told her all that she wanted to know, and of
      course she could not ask him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon a certain vague antagonism began to assert itself toward the old lady
      who knew so much and yet who said so little! who was too old really to
      understand&mdash;no old person, in fact, could understand&mdash;that is,
      no old woman. This proved, too, that this particular person could never
      have loved any other particular person in her life. Not that she, Ruth,
      loved Jack&mdash;by no manner of means&mdash;not in that way, at least.
      But she would have liked to know what he said, and how he said it, and
      whether his eyes had lost that terrible look which they wore when he
      turned away at the station to go back to his sick bed in the dingy hotel.
      All these things her Aunt Felicia knew about and yet she could not drag a
      word out of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      What she ought to have done was to go herself that first night, bravely,
      honestly, fearlessly as any friend had a right to do; go to him in his
      miserable little hotel and try to cheer him up as Miss Felicia, and
      perhaps Miss Bolton, had done. Then she might have found out all about it.
      Exactly what it was that she wanted to find out all about&mdash;and this
      increased her perplexity&mdash;she could not formulate, although she was
      convinced it would help her to bear the anxiety she was suffering. Now it
      was too late; more than a week had passed, and no excuse for going was
      possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until the morning after Peter's departure,&mdash;she, sitting
      alone, sad and silent in her chair at the head of her father's breakfast
      table (Miss Felicia, as was her custom, had her coffee in her room), that
      the first ray of light had crept into her troubled brain. It had only
      shone a brief moment,&mdash;and had then gone out in darkness, but it held
      a certain promise for better days, and on this she had built her hopes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to send for Breen to-morrow, Ruth,&rdquo; her father had said as he
      kissed her good-night. &ldquo;There are some things I want to talk over with
      him, and then I want to thank him for what he did for me. He's a man,
      every inch of him; I haven't told him so yet,&mdash;not to his face,&mdash;but
      I will to-morrow. Fine fellow is Breen; blood will always tell in the end,
      my daughter, and he's got the best in the country in his veins. Looks more
      like his father every day he lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had hardly slept all night, thinking of the pleasure in store for her.
      She had dressed herself, too, in her most becoming breakfast gown&mdash;one
      she had worn when Jack first arrived at Corklesville, and which he said
      reminded him of a picture he had seen as a boy. There were pink rosebuds
      woven in its soft texture, and the wide peach-blossom ribbon that bound
      her dainty waist contrasted so delightfully, as he had timidly hinted,
      with the tones of her hair and cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the puffy, bespectacled little doctor who shut out the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, your father has still one degree of fever,&rdquo; he grumbled, with a wise
      shake of his bushy head. &ldquo;No&mdash;nobody, Miss MacFarlane,&mdash;do you
      understand? He can see NOBODY&mdash;or I won't be responsible,&rdquo; and with
      this the crabbed old fellow climbed into his gig and drove away.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked after him for a moment and two hot tears dropped from her eyes
      and dashed themselves to pieces on the peach-blossom ribbon.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the sky was clearing again&mdash;she didn't realize it,&mdash;but it
      was. April skies always make alternate lights and darks. The old
      curmudgeon had gone, but the garden gate was again a-swing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth heard the tread on the porch and drawing back the curtains looked
      out. The most brilliant sunbeams were but dull rays compared with what now
      flashed from her eyes. Nor did she wait for any other hand than her own to
      turn the knob of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Breen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Ruth,&rdquo; Jack answered, lifting his hat, an unrestrained gladness
      at the sight of her beauty and freshness illumining his face. &ldquo;I have come
      to report for duty to your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you cannot see him. You must report to me,&rdquo; she laughed gayly, her
      heart brimming over now that he was before her again. &ldquo;Father was going to
      send for you to-day, but the doctor would not let him. Hush! he musn't
      hear us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would not let me go out either, but as I am tired to death of being
      cooped up in my room, I broke jail. Can't I see him?&rdquo; he continued in a
      lower key. He had his coat off and had hung it on the rack, she following
      him into the sitting-room, absorbing every inch of his strong, well-knit
      body from his short-cropped hair where the bandages had been wound, down
      to the sprained wrist which was still in splints. She noted, too, with a
      little choke in her throat, the shadows under the cheek bones and the
      thinness of the nose. She could see plainly how he had suffered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry you cannot see father.&rdquo; She was too moved to say more. &ldquo;He
      still has one degree of fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have two degrees myself,&rdquo; Jack laughed softly,&mdash;&ldquo;one records how
      anxious I was to get out of my cell and the other how eager I was to get
      here. And now I suppose I can't stay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, you can stay if you will keep as still as a mouse so father
      can't hear you,&rdquo; she whispered, a note of joy woven in her tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was leading him to the sofa as she spoke. He placed a cushion for her,
      and took his place beside her, resting his injured hand, which was in a
      sling, on the arm. He was still weak and shaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daddy is still in his room,&rdquo; she rattled on nervously, &ldquo;but he may be out
      and prowling about the upstairs hall any minute. He has a heap of things
      to talk over with you&mdash;he told me so last night&mdash;and if he knew
      you were here nothing would stop him. Wait till I shut the door. And now
      tell me about yourself,&rdquo; she continued in a louder voice, regaining her
      seat. &ldquo;You have had a dreadful time, I hear&mdash;it was the wrist, wasn't
      it?&rdquo; She felt she was beginning badly; although conscious of her nervous
      joy and her desire to conceal it, somehow it seemed hard for her to say
      the right thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I reckon it was everything, Miss Ruth, but it's all over now.&rdquo; He was
      not nervous. He was in an ecstasy. His eyes were drinking in the round of
      her throat and the waves of glorious hair that crowned her lovely head. He
      noticed, too, some tiny threads that lay close to her ears: he had been so
      hungry for a glimpse of them!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I hope so, but you shouldn't have come to the station that day,&rdquo; she
      struggled on. &ldquo;We had Uncle Peter with us, and only a hand-bag, each of
      us,&mdash;we came away so suddenly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't want you to be frightened about your father. I didn't know that
      Uncle Peter was with you; in fact, I didn't know much of anything until it
      was all over. Bolton sent the telegram as soon as he got his breath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what frightened us. Why didn't YOU send it?&rdquo; she was gaining
      control of herself now and something of her old poise had returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hadn't got MY breath,&mdash;not all of it. I remember his coming into
      my room where they were tying me up and bawling out something about how to
      reach you by wire, and he says now that I gave him Mr. Grayson's address.
      I cannot remember that part of it, except that I&mdash;Well, never mind
      about that&mdash;&rdquo; he hesitated turning away his gaze&mdash;the memory
      seemed to bring with it a certain pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;tell me,&rdquo; she pleaded. She was too happy. This was what she
      had been waiting for. There was no detail he must omit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was nothing, only I kept thinking it was you who were hurt,&rdquo; he
      stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me!&rdquo; she cried, her eyes dancing. The ray of light was breaking&mdash;one
      with a promise in it for the future!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;you, Miss Ruth! Funny, isn't it, how when you are half dead
      you get things mixed up.&rdquo; Oh, the stupidity of these lovers! Not a thing
      had he seen of the flash of expectation in her eyes or of the hot color
      rising to her cheeks. &ldquo;I thought somebody was trying to tell your father
      that you were hurt, and I was fighting to keep him from hearing it. But
      you must thank Bolton for letting you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth's face clouded and the sparkle died out in her eyes. What was Mr.
      Bolton to her, and at a time like this?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was most kind of Mr. Bolton,&rdquo; she answered in a constrained voice. &ldquo;I
      only wish he had said something more; we had a terrible day. Uncle Peter
      was nearly crazy about you; he telegraphed and telegraphed, but we could
      get no answer. That's why it was such a relief to find you at the
      station.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the bat had not finished banging his head against the wall. &ldquo;Then I
      did do some good by going?&rdquo; he asked earnestly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed you did.&rdquo; If he did not care whether she had been hurt or not,
      even in his delirium, she was not going to betray herself. &ldquo;It was the
      first time anybody had seen Uncle Peter smile; he was wretched all day. He
      loves you very dearly, Mr. Breen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's hand dropped so suddenly to his side that the pain made him tighten
      his lips. For a moment he did not answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it was only Uncle Peter who was anxious, was it? I am glad he loves
      me. I love him, too,&rdquo; he said at last in a perfunctory tone&mdash;&ldquo;he's
      been everything to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have been everything to him.&rdquo; She determined to change the
      subject now. &ldquo;He told me only&mdash;well,&mdash;two days ago&mdash;that
      you had made him ten years younger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me?&mdash;Miss Ruth!&rdquo; Still the same monotonous cadence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&mdash;maybe because he is old and you are young.&rdquo; As she spoke her
      eyes measured the width of his shoulders and his broad chest&mdash;she saw
      now to what her father owed his life&mdash;&ldquo;and another thing; he said
      that he would always thank you for getting out alive. And I owe you a debt
      of gratitude, too, Mr. Breen;&mdash;you gave me back my dear daddy,&rdquo; she
      added in a more assured tone. Here at last was something she could talk
      unreservedly about. Something that she had wanted to say ever since he
      came.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack straightened and threw back his shoulders: that word again! Was that
      all that Ruth had to say?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Ruth, you don't.&rdquo; There was a slight ring of defiance now. &ldquo;You
      do not owe me anything, and please don't think so, and please&mdash;please&mdash;do
      not say so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't owe you anything! Not for saving my father's life?&rdquo; This came
      with genuine surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! What would you have thought of me, what would I have thought of
      myself had I left him to suffocate when I could just as well have brought
      him out? Do you think I could ever have looked you in the face again? You
      might not have ever known I could have saved him&mdash;but I should have
      hated myself every hour of my life. Men are not to be thanked for these
      things; they are to be despised if they don't do them. Can't you see the
      difference?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you might have been killed, too!&rdquo; she exclaimed. Her own voice was
      rising, irritation and disappointment swaying it. &ldquo;Everybody says it was a
      miracle you were not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a miracle at all. All I was afraid of was stumbling over something in
      the dark&mdash;and it was nearly dark&mdash;only a few of the rock lights
      burning&mdash;and not be able to get on my feet again. But don't let us
      talk about it any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but I will, I MUST. I must feel right about it all, and I
      cannot unless you listen. I shall never forget you for it as long as I
      live.&rdquo; There was a note of pathos in her voice. Why did he make it so hard
      for her, she thought. Why would he not look in her face and see? Why would
      he not let her thank him? &ldquo;Nothing in the world is so precious to me as
      daddy, and never will be,&rdquo; she went on resolutely, driving back the
      feeling of injustice that surged up in her heart at his attitude&mdash;&ldquo;and
      it is you, Mr. Breen, who have given him back to me. And daddy feels the
      same way about it; and he is going to tell you so the minute he sees you,&rdquo;
       she insisted. &ldquo;He has sent you a lot of messages, he says, but they do not
      count. Please, now won't you let me thank you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack raised his head. He had been fingering a tassel on the end of the
      sofa, missing all the play of feeling in her eyes, taking in nothing but
      the changes that she rang on that one word &ldquo;gratitude.&rdquo; Gratitude!&mdash;when
      he loved the ground she stepped on. But he must face the issue fairly now:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;I don't want you to thank me,&rdquo; he answered simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you want, then?&rdquo; She was at sea now,&mdash;compass and
      rudder gone,&mdash;wind blowing from every quarter at once,&mdash;she
      trying to reach the harbor of his heart while every tack was taking her
      farther from port. If the Scribe had his way the whole coast of love would
      be lighted and all rocks of doubt and misunderstanding charted for just
      such hapless lovers as these two. How often a twist of the tiller could
      send them into the haven of each other's arms, and yet how often they go
      ashore and stay ashore and worse still, stay ashore all their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked into her eyes and a hopeless, tired expression crossed his
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; he said in a barely audible voice:&mdash;&ldquo;I just&mdash;please,
      Miss Ruth, let us talk of something else; let me tell you how lovely your
      gown is and how glad I am you wore it to-day. I always liked it, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;never mind about my gown; I would rather you did not like
      anything about me than misunderstand me!&rdquo; The tears were just under the
      lids;&mdash;one more thrust like the last and they would be streaming down
      her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I haven't misunderstood you.&rdquo; He saw the lips quiver, but it was
      anger, he thought, that caused it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you have!&rdquo;&mdash;a great lump had risen in her throat. &ldquo;You have
      done a brave, noble act,&mdash;everybody says so; you carried my dear
      father out on your back when there was not but one chance in a thousand
      you would ever get out alive; you lay in a faint for hours and once they
      gave you up for dead; then you thought enough of Uncle Peter and all of us
      to get that telegram sent so we wouldn't be terrified to death and then at
      the risk of your life you met us at the station and have been in bed ever
      since, and yet I am to sit still and not say a word!&rdquo; It was all she could
      do to control herself. &ldquo;I do feel grateful to you and I always shall feel
      grateful to you as long as I live. And now will you take my hand and tell
      me you are sorry, and let me say it all over again, and with my whole
      heart? for that's the way I mean it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was facing him now, her hand held out, her head thrown back, her dark
      eyes flashing, her bosom heaving. Slowly and reverently, as a devotee
      would kiss the robe of a passing priest, Jack bent his head and touched
      her fingers with his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, raising his eyes to hers, he asked, &ldquo;And is that all, Miss Ruth?
      Isn't there something more?&rdquo; Not once had she mentioned his own safety&mdash;not
      once had she been glad over him&mdash;&ldquo;Something more?&rdquo; he repeated, an
      ineffable tenderness in his tones&mdash;&ldquo;something&mdash;it isn't all, is
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, how can I say anything more?&rdquo; she murmured in a lowered voice,
      withdrawing her hand as the sound of a step in the hall reached her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door swung wide: &ldquo;Well, what are you two young people quarrelling
      about?&rdquo; came a soft, purring voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We weren't quarrelling, Aunty. Mr. Breen is so modest he doesn't want
      anybody to thank him, and I just would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Felicia felt that she had entered just in time. Scarred and penniless
      heroes fresh from battle-fields of glory and desirable young women whose
      fathers have been carried bodily out of burning death pits must never be
      left too long together.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      As the weeks rolled by, two questions constantly rose in Ruth's mind: Why
      had he not wanted her to thank him?&mdash;and what had he meant by&mdash;&ldquo;And
      is that all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her other admirers&mdash;and there had been many in her Maryland home&mdash;had
      never behaved like this. Was it because they liked her better than she
      liked them? The fact was&mdash;and she might as well admit it once for all&mdash;that
      Jack did not like her at all, he really DISliked her, and only his loyalty
      to her father and that inborn courtesy which made him polite to every
      woman he met&mdash;young or old&mdash;prevented his betraying himself. She
      tried to suggest something like this to Miss Felicia, but that good woman
      had only said: &ldquo;Men are queer, my dear, and these Southerners are the
      queerest of them all. They are so chivalrous that at times they get
      tiresome. Breen is no better than the rest of them.&rdquo; This had ended it
      with Miss Felicia. Nor would she ever mention his name to her again. Jack
      was not tiresome; on the contrary, he was the soul of honor and as brave
      as he could be&mdash;a conclusion quite as illogical as that of her
      would-be adviser.
    </p>
    <p>
      If she could only have seen Peter, the poor child thought,&mdash;Peter
      understood&mdash;just as some women not as old as her aunt would have
      understood. Dear Uncle Peter! He had told her once what Jack had said
      about her&mdash;how beautiful he thought her and how he loved her devotion
      to her father. Jack MUST have said it, for Uncle Peter never spoke
      anything but the exact truth. Then why had Jack, and everything else,
      changed so cruelly? she would say&mdash;talking to herself, sometimes
      aloud. For the ring had gone from his voice and the tenderness from his
      touch. Not that he ever was tender, not that she wanted him to be, for
      that matter; and then she would shut her door and throw herself on her bed
      in an agony of tears&mdash;pleading a headache or fatigue that she might
      escape her father's inquiry, and often his anxious glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only ray of light that had pierced her troubled heart&mdash;and this
      only flashed for a brief moment&mdash;was the glimpse she had had of
      Jack's mind when he and her father first met. The boy had called to
      inquire after his Chief's health and for any instructions he might wish to
      give, when MacFarlane, hearing the young hero's voice in the hall below,
      hurried down to greet him. Ruth was leaning over the banister at the time
      and saw all that passed. Once within reach MacFarlane strode up to Jack,
      and with the look on his face of a man who had at last found the son he
      had been hunting for all his life, laid his hand on the lad's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we understand each other, Breen,&mdash;don't we?&rdquo; he said simply,
      his voice breaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, sir,&rdquo; answered Jack, his own eyes aglow, as their hands met.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing else had followed. There was no outburst. Both were men; in the
      broadest and strongest sense each had weighed the other. The eyes and the
      quivering lips and the lingering hand-clasp told the rest. A sudden light
      broke in on Ruth. Her father's quiet words, and his rescuer's direct
      answer came as a revelation. Jack, then, did want to be thanked! Yes, but
      not by her! Why was it? Why had he not understood? And why had he made her
      suffer, and what had she done to deserve it?
    </p>
    <p>
      If Jack suspected any of these heartaches and misgivings, no one would
      have surmised it. He came and went as usual, passing an hour in the
      morning and an hour at night with his Chief, until he had entirely
      recovered his strength&mdash;bringing with him the records of the work;
      the number of feet drilled in a day; cost of maintenance; cubic contents
      of dump; extent and slope and angles of &ldquo;fill&rdquo;&mdash;all the matters which
      since his promotion (Jack now had Bolton's place) came under his immediate
      supervision. Nor had any word passed between himself and Ruth, other than
      the merest commonplace. He was cheery, buoyant, always ready to help,&mdash;always
      at her service if she took the train for New York or stayed after dark at
      a neighbor's house, when he would insist on bringing her home, no matter
      how late he had been up the night before.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the truth were known, he neither suspected nor could he be made to
      believe that Ruth had any troubles. The facts were that he had given her
      all his heart and had been ready to lay himself at her feet, that being
      the accepted term in his mental vocabulary&mdash;and she would have none
      of him. She had let him understand so&mdash;rebuffed him&mdash;not once,
      but every time he had tried to broach the subject of his devotion;&mdash;once
      in the Geneseo arbor, and again on that morning when he had really crawled
      to her side because he could no longer live without seeing her. The manly
      thing to do now was to accept the situation: to do his work; look after
      his employer's interests, read, study, run over whenever he could to see
      Peter&mdash;and these were never-to-be-forgotten oases in the desert of
      his despair&mdash;and above all never to forget that he owed a duty to
      Miss Ruth in which no personal wish of his own could ever find a place.
      She was alone and without an escort except her father, who was often so
      absorbed in his work, or so tired at night, as to be of little help to
      her. Moreover, his Chief had, in a way, added his daughter's care to his
      other duties. &ldquo;Can't you take Ruth to-night&mdash;&rdquo; or &ldquo;I wish you'd meet
      her at the ferry,&rdquo; or &ldquo;if you are going to that dinner in New York, at
      so-and-so's, would you mind calling for her&mdash;&rdquo; etc., etc. Don't
      start, dear reader. These two came of a breed where the night key and the
      daughter go together and where a chaperon would be as useless as a
      policeman locked inside a bank vault.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the boy struggled on, growing in bodily strength and mental
      experience, still the hero among the men for his heroic rescue of the
      &ldquo;Boss&rdquo;&mdash;a reputation which he never lost; making friends every day
      both in the village and in New York and keeping them; absorbed in his
      slender library, and living within his means, which small as they were,
      now gave him two rooms at Mrs. Hicks's,&mdash;one of which he had fitted
      up as a little sitting-room and in which Ruth had poured the first cup of
      tea, her father and some of the village people being guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      His one secret&mdash;and it was his only one&mdash;he kept locked up in
      his heart, even from Peter. Why worry the dear old fellow, he had said to
      himself a dozen times, since nothing would ever come of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      While all this had been going on in the house of MacFarlane, much more
      astonishing things had been developing in the house of Breen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second Mukton Lode scoop,&mdash;the one so deftly handled the night of
      Arthur Breen's dinner to the directors,&mdash;had somehow struck a snag in
      the scooping with the result that most of the &ldquo;scoopings&rdquo; had been spilled
      over the edge there to be gathered up by the gamins of the Street, instead
      of being hived in the strong boxes of the scoopers. Some of the habitues
      in the orchestra chairs in Breen's office had cursed loud and deep when
      they saw their margins melt away; and one or two of the directors had
      broken out into open revolt, charging Breen with the fiasco, but most of
      the others had held their peace. It was better to crawl away into the tall
      grass there to nurse their wounds than to give the enemy a list of the
      killed and wounded. Now and then an outsider&mdash;one who had watched the
      battle from afar&mdash;saw more of the fight than the contestants
      themselves. Among these was Garry Minott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You heard how Mason, the Chicago man, euchred the Mukton gang, didn't
      you?&rdquo; he had shouted to a friend one night at the Magnolia&mdash;&ldquo;Oh,
      listen! boys. They set up a job on him,&mdash;he's a countryman, you know
      a poor little countryman&mdash;from a small village called Chicago&mdash;he's
      got three millions, remember, all in hard cash. Nice, quiet motherly old
      gentleman is Mr. Mason&mdash;butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Went into
      Mukton with every dollar he had&mdash;so kind of Mr. Breen to let him in&mdash;yes,
      put him down for 2,000 shares more. Then Breen &amp; Co. began to hoist
      her up&mdash;five points&mdash;ten points&mdash;twenty points. At the end
      of the week they had, without knowing it, bought every share of Mason's
      stock.&rdquo; Here Garry roared, as did the others within hearing. &ldquo;And they've
      got it yet. Next day the bottom dropped out. Some of them heard Mason
      laugh all the way to the bank. He's cleaned up half a million and gone
      back home&mdash;'so afraid his mother would spank him for being out late
      o' nights without his nurse,'&rdquo; and again Garry's laugh rang out with such
      force and earnestness that the glasses on Biffy's table chinked in
      response.
    </p>
    <p>
      This financial set-back, while it had injured, for the time, Arthur
      Breen's reputation for being &ldquo;up and dressed,&rdquo; had not, to any appreciable
      extent, curtailed his expenditures or narrowed the area of his social
      domain. Mrs. Breen's dinners and entertainments had been as frequent and
      as exclusive, and Miss Corinne had continued to run the gamut of the
      gayest and best patronized functions without, the Scribe is pained to
      admit, bringing home with her for good and all both her cotillion favors
      and the gentleman who had bestowed them. Her little wren-like head had
      moved from side to side, and she had sung her sweetest and prettiest, but
      somehow, when the song was over and the crumbs all eaten (and there were
      often two dinners a week and at least one dance), off went the male birds
      to other and more captivating roosts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Breen, of course, raved when Corinne at last opened the door of her
      cage for Garry,&mdash;went to bed, in fact, for the day, to accentuate her
      despair and mark her near approach to death because of it&mdash;a piece of
      inconsistency she could well have spared herself, knowing Corinne as she
      had, from the day of her birth, and remembering as she must have done, her
      own escapade with the almost penniless young army officer who afterward
      became Corinne's father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen did not rave; Breen rather liked it. Garry had no money, it is true,
      except what he could earn,&mdash;neither had Corinne. Garry seemed to do
      as he darned pleased,&mdash;so did Corinne;&mdash;Garry had no mother,&mdash;neither
      had Corinne so far as yielding to any authority was concerned. &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;let
      'em marry,&mdash;good thing&mdash;begin at the bottom round and work up&mdash;&rdquo;
       all of which meant that the honorable banker was delighted over the
      prospect of considerable more freedom for himself and considerable less
      expense in the household.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the wedding had taken place with all the necessary trimmings:
      awning over the carpeted sidewalk; four policemen on the curb; detectives
      in the hall and up the staircase and in the front bedroom where the jewels
      were exposed (all the directors of the Mukton Lode were represented);
      crowds lining the sidewalk; mob outside the church door&mdash;mob inside
      the church door and clear up to the altar; flowers, palms, special choir,
      with little bank-notes to the boys and a big bank-note to the leader;
      checks for the ranking clergyman and the two assistant clergymen, not
      forgetting crisp bills for the sexton and the janitor and the policemen
      and the detectives and everybody else who could hold out a hand and not be
      locked up in jail for highway robbery. Yes, a most fashionable and a most
      distinguished and a most exclusive wedding&mdash;there was no mistake
      about that.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one had ever seen anything like it before; some hoped they never would
      again, so great was the crush in the drawing-room. And not only in the
      drawing-room, but over every square inch of the house for that matter,
      from the front door where Parkins's assistant (an extra man from
      Delmonico's) shouted out&mdash;&ldquo;Third floor back for the gentlemen and
      second floor front for the ladies&rdquo;&mdash;to the innermost recesses of the
      library made over into a banquet hall, where that great functionary
      himself was pouring champagne into batteries of tumblers as if it were so
      much water, and distributing cuts of cold salmon and portions of terrapin
      with the prodigality of a charity committee serving a picnic.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then the heartaches over the cards that never came; and the presents
      that were never sent, and the wrath of the relations who got below the
      ribbon in the church and the airs of the strangers who got above it; and
      the tears over the costly dresses that did not arrive in time and the
      chagrin over those they had to wear or stay at home&mdash;and the heat and
      the jam and tear and squeeze&mdash;and the aftermath of wet glasses on
      inlaid tables and fine-spun table-cloths burnt into holes with careless
      cigarettes; and the little puddles of ice cream on the Turkish rugs and
      silk divans and the broken glass and smashed china!&mdash;No&mdash;there
      never had been such a wedding!
    </p>
    <p>
      This over, Corinne and Garry had gone to housekeeping in a dear little
      flat, to which we may be sure Jack was rarely ever invited (he had only
      received &ldquo;cards&rdquo; to the church, an invitation which he had religiously
      accepted, standing at the door so he could bow to them both as they
      passed)&mdash;the two, I say, had gone to a dear little flat&mdash;so
      dear, in fact, that before the year was out Garry's finances were in such
      a deplorable condition that the lease could not be renewed, and another
      and a cheaper nest had to be sought for.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at this time that the new church to be built at Corklesville needed
      an architect&mdash;a fact which Jack communicated to Garry. Then it
      happened that with the aid of MacFarlane and Holker Morris the commission
      was finally awarded to that &ldquo;rising young genius who had so justly
      distinguished himself in the atelier of America's greatest architect&mdash;Holker
      Morris&mdash;&rdquo; all of which Garry wrote himself and had inserted in the
      county paper, he having called upon the editor for that very purpose. This
      service&mdash;and it came at a most critical time in the young man's
      affairs&mdash;the Scribe is glad to say, Garry, with his old-time generous
      spirit suddenly revived, graciously acknowledged thanking Jack heartily
      and with meaning in his voice, as well as MacFarlane&mdash;not forgetting
      Ruth, to whom he sent a mass of roses as big as a bandbox.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gaining of this church building&mdash;the largest and most important
      given the young architect since he had left Morris's protection and
      guidance&mdash;decided Garry to give up at once his expensive quarters in
      New York and move to Corklesville. So far as any help from the house of
      Breen was concerned, all hope had ended with the expensive and
      much-advertised wedding (a shrewd financial move, really, for a firm
      selling shady securities). Corinne had cooed, wept, and then succumbed
      into an illness, but Breen had only replied: &ldquo;No, let 'em paddle their own
      canoe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This is why the sign &ldquo;To Let,&rdquo; on one of the new houses built by the Elm
      Crest Land and Improvement Company&mdash;old Tom Corkle who owned the
      market garden farms that gave the village of Corklesville its name, would
      have laughed himself sore had he been alive&mdash;was ripped off and
      various teams loaded with all sorts of furniture, some very expensive and
      showy and some quite the contrary&mdash;especially that belonging to the
      servants' rooms&mdash;were backed up to the newly finished porch with its
      second coat of paint still wet, and their contents duly distributed
      upstairs and downstairs and in my lady Corinne's chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got to put on the brakes, old man,&rdquo; Garry had said one day to Jack. The
      boy had heard of the expected change in the architect's finances before
      the villa was rented, and so Garry's confidential communication was not
      news to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been up to look at one of those new houses. Regular bird cage, but we can
      get along. Besides, this town is going to grow and I'm going to help it
      along. They are all dead out here&mdash;embalmed, some of them&mdash;but
      dead.&rdquo; Here he opened the pamphlet of the company&mdash;&ldquo;See this house&mdash;an
      hour from New York; high ground; view of the harbor&mdash;(all a lie,
      Jack, but it goes all the same); sewers, running water, gas (lot of the
      last,&mdash;most of it in the prospectus) It's called Elm Crest&mdash;beautiful,
      isn't it,&mdash;and not a stump within half a mile.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack always remembered the interview. That Garry should help along
      anything that he took an interest in was quite in the line of his ambition
      and ability. Minott was as &ldquo;smart as a steel trap,&rdquo; Holker Morris had
      always said of him, &ldquo;and a wonderful fellow among the men. He can get
      anything out of them; he would really make a good politician. His handling
      of the Corn Exchange showed that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so it was not surprising,&mdash;not to Jack,&mdash;that when a new
      village councilman was to be elected, Garry should have secured votes
      enough to be included among their number. Nor was it at all wonderful that
      after taking his seat he should have been placed in charge of the village
      funds so far as the expenditures for contract work went. The prestige of
      Morris's office settled all doubts as to his fitness in construction; and
      the splendor of the wedding&mdash;there could still be seen posted in the
      houses of the workmen the newspaper cuts showing the bride and groom
      leaving the church&mdash;silenced all opposition to &ldquo;our fellow
      townsman's&rdquo; financial responsibility, even when that opposition was led by
      so prominent a ward heeler as Mr. Patrick McGowan, who had planned to get
      the position himself&mdash;and who became Garry's arch enemy thereafter.
    </p>
    <p>
      In these financial and political advancements Corinne helped but little.
      None of the village people interested her, nor did she put herself out in
      the least to be polite to them. Ruth had called and had brought her hands
      full of roses&mdash;and so had her father. Garry had continued to thank
      them both for their good word to the church wardens&mdash;and he himself
      now and then spent an evening at MacFarlane's house without Corinne, who
      generally pleaded illness; but the little flame of friendship which had
      flashed after their arrival in Corklesville had died down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had gone on until the acquaintance had practically ended, except when
      they met on the trains or in crossing the ferry. Then again, Ruth and her
      father lived at one end of the village known as Corklesville, and Garry
      and Corinne lived at the other end, known as Elm Crest, the connecting
      link being the railroad, a fact which Jack told Garry with a suggestive
      laugh, made them always turn their backs on each other when they parted to
      go to their respective homes, to which Garry would reply that it was an
      outrage and that he was coming up that very night&mdash;all of which he
      failed to do when the proposed visit was talked over with Corinne.
    </p>
    <p>
      None of this affected Jack. He would greet Corinne as affectionately and
      cordially as he had ever done. He had taken her measure years before, but
      that made no difference to him, he never forgetting that she was his
      uncle's nominal daughter; that they had been sheltered by the same roof
      and that she therefore in a way belonged to his people. Moreover, he
      realized, that like himself, she had been compelled to give up many of the
      luxuries and surroundings to which she had been accustomed and which she
      loved,&mdash;worthless now to Jack in his freedom, but still precious to
      her. This in itself was enough to bespeak his sympathy. Not that she
      valued it;&mdash;she rather sniffed at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish Jack wouldn't stand with his hat off until I get aboard the
      train,&rdquo; she had told Garry one day shortly after their arrival&mdash;&ldquo;he
      makes me so conspicuous. And he wears such queer clothes. He was in his
      slouch hat and rough flannel shirt and high boots the other day and looked
      like a tramp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better not laugh at Jack, Cory,&rdquo; Garry had replied; &ldquo;you'll be taking
      your own hat off to him one of these days; we all shall. Arthur Breen
      missed it when he let him go. Jack's queer about some things, but he's a
      thoroughbred and he's got brains!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He insulted Mr. Breen in his own house, that's why he let him go,&rdquo;
       snapped Corinne. The idea of her ever taking off her hat, even
      figuratively, to John Breen, was not to be brooked,&mdash;not for an
      instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's one way of looking at it, Cory, but I tell you if Arthur
      Breen had had Jack with him these last few months&mdash;ever since he left
      him, in fact,&mdash;and had listened once in a while to what Jack thought
      was fair and square, the firm of A. B. &amp; Co. would have a better hold
      on things than they've got now; and he wouldn't have dropped that million
      either. The cards don't always come up the right way, even when they're
      stacked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It just served my stepfather right for not giving us some of it, and I'm
      glad he lost it,&rdquo; Corinne rejoined, her anger rising again. &ldquo;I have never
      forgiven him for not making me an allowance after I married, and I never
      will. He could, at least, have continued the one he always gave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry winked sententiously, and remarked in reply that he might be making
      the distinguished money-bags an allowance himself one of these fine days,
      and he could if some of the things he was counting on came out top side
      up, but Corinne's opinions did not change either toward Jack or her
      stepfather.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      When the pain in Jack's heart over Ruth became unbearable, there was
      always one refuge left&mdash;one balm which never failed to soothe, and
      that was Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      For though he held himself in readiness for her call, being seldom absent
      lest she might need his services, their constrained intercourse brought
      with it more pain than pleasure. It was then that he longed for the
      comfort which only his dear mentor could give.
    </p>
    <p>
      On these occasions Mrs. McGuffey would take the lace cover off Miss
      Felicia's bureau, as a matter of precaution, provided that lady was away
      and the room available, and roll in a big tub for the young gentleman&mdash;&ldquo;who
      do be washin' hisself all the time and he that sloppy that I'm afeared
      everything will be spi'lt for the mistress,&rdquo; and Jack would slip out of
      his working clothes (he would often come away in his flannel shirt and
      loose tie, especially when he was late in paying off) and shed his heavy
      boots with the red clay of Jersey still clinging to their soles, and get
      into his white linen and black clothes and dress shoes, and then the two
      chums would lock arms and saunter up Fifth Avenue to dine either at one of
      Peter's clubs or at some house where he and that &ldquo;handsome young ward of
      yours, Mr. Grayson&mdash;do bring him again,&rdquo; were so welcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Miss Felicia was in town and her room in use, there was never any
      change in the programme, Mrs. McGuffey rising to the emergency and
      discovering another and somewhat larger apartment in the next house but
      two&mdash;&ldquo;for one of the finest gintlemen ye ever saw and that quiet,&rdquo;
       etc.&mdash;into which Jack would move and which the good woman would
      insist on taking full charge of herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on one of these blessed and always welcome nights, after the two
      had been dining at &ldquo;a little crack in the wall,&rdquo; as Peter called a near-by
      Italian restaurant, that he and Jack stopped to speak to Isaac Cohen whom
      they found closing his shop for the night. Cohen invited them in and Jack,
      after following the little tailor through the deserted shop&mdash;all the
      work people had left&mdash;found himself, to his great surprise, in a
      small room at the rear, which Isaac opened with a key taken from his vest
      pocket, and which even in the dim light of a single gas jet had more the
      appearance of the den of a scholar, or the workshop of a scientist, than
      the private office of a fashioner of clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter only stayed a moment&mdash;long enough to borrow the second volume
      of one of Isaac's books, but the quaint interior and what it contained
      made a great impression on Jack,&mdash;so much so that when the two had
      said good-night and mounted the stairs to Peter's rooms, it was with
      increased interest that the boy listened to the old fellow who stopped on
      every landing to tell him some incident connected with the little tailor
      and his life: How after his wife's death some years before, and his only
      daughter's marriage&mdash;&ldquo;and a great affair it was, my boy, I was there
      and know,&rdquo;&mdash;Cohen had moved down to his shop and fitted up the back
      room for a little shelter of his own, where he had lived with his books
      and his personal belongings and where he had met the queerest looking
      people&mdash;with big heads and bushy beards&mdash;foreigners, some of
      them&mdash;speaking all kinds of languages, as well as many highly
      educated men in town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once inside his own cosey rooms Peter bustled about, poking the fire into
      life, drawing the red curtains closer, moving a vase of roses so he could
      catch their fragrance from where he sat, wheeling two big, easy,
      all-embracing arm-chairs to the blaze, rolling a small table laden with
      various burnables and pourables within reach of their elbows, and
      otherwise disporting himself after the manner of the most cheery and
      lovable of hosts. This done, he again took up the thread of his discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! He's a wonderful old fellow, this Isaac Cohen,&rdquo; he rattled on when
      the two were seated. &ldquo;You had only a glimpse of that den of his, but you
      should see his books on costumes,&mdash;he's an authority, you know,&mdash;and
      his miniatures,&mdash;Oh, a Cosway, which he keeps in his safe, that is a
      wonder!&mdash;and his old manuscripts. Those are locked up too. And he's a
      gentleman, too, Jack; not once in all the years I have known him have I
      ever heard him mention the word money in an objectionable way, and he has
      plenty of it even if he does press off my coat with his own hands. Can you
      recall anybody you know, my boy&mdash;even in the houses where you and I
      have been lately, who doesn't let the word slip out in a dozen different
      ways before the evening is over? And best of all, he's sane,&mdash;one of
      the few men whom it is safe to let walk around loose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you like him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immensely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you never remember he is a Jew?&rdquo; This was one of the things Jack had
      never understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never;&mdash;that's not his fault,&mdash;rather to his credit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because the world is against both him and his race, and yet in all the
      years I have known him, nothing has ever soured his temper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack struck a match, relit his cigar and settling himself more comfortably
      in his chair, said in a positive tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sour or sweet,&mdash;I don't like Jews,&mdash;never did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't like him because you don't know him. That's your fault, not
      his. But you would like him, let me tell you, if you could hear him talk.
      And now I think of it, I am determined you shall know him, and right away.
      Not that he cares&mdash;Cohen's friends are among the best men in London,
      especially the better grade of theatrical people, whose clothes he has
      made and whose purses he has kept full&mdash;yes&mdash;and whom he
      sometimes had to bury to keep them out of Potter's field; and those he
      knows here&mdash;his kind of people, I mean, not yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All in his line of business, Uncle Peter,&rdquo; Jack laughed. &ldquo;How much
      interest did they pay,&mdash;cent per cent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ashamed of you, Jack. Not a penny. Don't let your mind get clogged
      up, my boy, with such prejudices,&mdash;keep the slate of your judgment
      sponged clean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you believe everybody is clean, Uncle Peter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so must you, until you prove them dirty. Now, will you do me a very
      great kindness and yourself one as well? Please go downstairs, rap three
      times at Mr. Cohen's shutters&mdash;hard, so that he can hear you&mdash;that's
      my signal&mdash;present my compliments and ask him to be kind enough to
      come up and have a cigar with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack leaned forward in his seat, his face showing his astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy was out of his chair and clattering down-stairs before Peter could
      add another word to his message. If he had asked him to crawl out on the
      roof and drop himself into the third-story window of the next house, he
      would have obeyed him with the same alacrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter wheeled up another chair; added some small and large glasses to the
      collection on the tray and awaited Jack's return. The experience was not
      new. The stupid, illogical prejudice was not confined to inexperienced
      lads.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had had the same thing to contend with dozens of times before. Even
      Holker had once said: &ldquo;Peter, what the devil do you find in that little
      shrimp of a Hebrew to interest you? Is he cold that you warm him, or
      hungry that you feed him,&mdash;or lonely that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop right there, Holker! You've said it,&mdash;lonely&mdash;that's it&mdash;LONELY!
      That's what made me bring him up the first time he was ever here. It
      seemed such a wicked thing to me to have him at one end of the house&mdash;the
      bottom end, too&mdash;crooning over a fire, and I at the top end crooning
      over another, when one blaze could warm us both. So up he came, Holker,
      and now it is I who am lonely when a week passes and Isaac does not tap at
      my door, or I tap at his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The distinguished architect understood it all a week later when the new
      uptown synagogue was being talked of and he was invited to meet the board,
      and found to his astonishment that the wise little man with the big gold
      spectacles, occupying the chair was none other than Peter's tailor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our mutual friend Mr. Grayson, of the Exeter Bank, spoke to me about you,
      Mr. Morris,&rdquo; said the little man without a trace of foreign accent and
      with all the composure of a great banker making a government loan; rising
      at the same time, with great dignity introducing Morris to his brother
      trustees and then placing him in the empty seat next his own. After that,
      and on more than one occasion, there were three chairs around Peter's
      blaze, with Morris in one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these thoughts coursed through Peter's head as Jack and Cohen were
      mounting the three flights of stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Isaac,&rdquo; he cried at first sight of his friend, &ldquo;I just wanted you to
      know my boy, Jack Breen, better, and as his legs are younger than mine, I
      sent him down instead of going myself&mdash;you don't mind, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mind!&mdash;of course I do not mind,&mdash;but I do know Mr. Breen. I
      first met him many months ago&mdash;when your sister was here&mdash;and
      then I see him going in and out all the time&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop your nonsense, Isaac;&mdash;that's not the way to know a man; that's
      the way not to know him, but what's more to the point is, I want Jack to
      know you. These young fellows have very peculiar ideas about a good many
      things,&mdash;and this boy is like all the rest&mdash;some of which ought
      to be knocked out of his head,&mdash;your race, for one thing. He thinks
      that because you are a Jew that you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack uttered a smothered, &ldquo;Oh, Uncle Peter!&rdquo; but the old fellow who now
      had the tailor in one of his big chairs and was filling a thin wineglass
      with a brown liquid (ten years in the wood)&mdash;Holker sent it&mdash;kept
      straight on. &ldquo;Jack's all right inside, or I wouldn't love him, but there
      are a good many things he has got to learn, and you happen to be one of
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Cohen lay back in his chair and laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not mind him, Mr. Breen,&mdash;do not mind a word he says. He
      mortifies me that same way. And now&mdash;&rdquo; here he turned his head to
      Peter&mdash;&ldquo;what does he think of my race?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! He thinks you are a lot of money-getters and pawnbrokers, gouging the
      poor and squeezing the rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack broke out into a cold perspiration: &ldquo;Really, Uncle Peter! Now, Mr.
      Cohen, won't you please believe that I never said one word of it,&rdquo;
       exclaimed Jack in pleading tones, his face expressing his embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never said you did, Jack,&rdquo; rejoined Peter with mock solemnity in his
      voice. &ldquo;I said you THOUGHT so. And now here he is,&mdash;look at him. Does
      he look like Scrooge or Shylock or some old skinflint who&mdash;&rdquo; here he
      faced Cohen, his eyes brimming with merriment&mdash;&ldquo;What are we going to
      do with this blasphemer, Isaac? Shall we boil him in oil as they did that
      old sixteenth-century saint you were telling me about the other night, or
      shall we&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little tailor threw out his hands&mdash;each finger an exclamation
      point&mdash;and laughed heartily, cutting short Peter's tirade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;we do none of these dreadful things to Mr. Breen; he is
      too good to be a saint,&rdquo; and he patted Jack's knees&mdash;&ldquo;and then again
      it is only the truth. Mr. Breen is quite right; we are a race of
      money-getters, and we are also the world's pawnbrokers and will always be.
      Sometimes we make a loan on a watch or a wedding ring to keep some poor
      soul from starving; sometimes it is a railroad to give a millionaire a
      yacht, or help buy his wife a string of pearls. It is quite the same, only
      over one shop we hang three gilt balls: on the other we nail a sign which
      reads: 'Financial Agents.' And it is the same Jew, remember, who stands
      behind both counters. The first Jew is overhauled almost every day by the
      police; the second Jew is regarded as our public-spirited citizen. So you
      see, my young friend, that it is only a question of the amount of money
      you have got whether you loan on rings or railroads.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whether the Christian lifts his hat or his boot,&rdquo; laughed Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cohen leaned his elbows on his plump knees and went on, the slender glass
      still in his hand, from which now and then he took a sip. Peter sat buried
      in his chair, his cigar between his fingers. Jack held his peace; it was
      not for him to air his opinions in the presence of the two older men, and
      then again the tailor had suddenly become a savant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, there are many things I wish were different,&rdquo; the tailor
      continued in a more thoughtful tone. &ldquo;Many of my people forget their
      birthright and force themselves on the Christian, trying to break down the
      fence which has always divided us, and which is really our best
      protection. As long as we keep to ourselves we are a power. Persecution,&mdash;and
      sometimes it amounts to that&mdash;is better than amalgamation; it brings
      out our better fighting qualities and makes us rely on ourselves. This is
      the view of our best thinkers, and they are right. Just hear me run on!
      Why talk about these things? They are for graybeards, not young fellows
      with the world before them.&rdquo; Cohen straightened up&mdash;laid his glass on
      the small table, waved his hand in denial to Peter who started to refill
      it, and continued, turning to Jack: &ldquo;And now let me hear something about
      your own work, Mr. Breen,&rdquo; he said in his kindest and most interested
      voice. &ldquo;Mr. Grayson tells me you are cutting a great tunnel. Under a
      mountain, is it not? Ah!&mdash;that is something worth doing. And here is
      this old uncle of yours with his fine clothes and his old wine, who does
      nothing but pore over his musty bank-books, and here am I in the cellar
      below, who can only sew on buttons, and yet we have the impudence to
      criticise you. Really, I never heard of such conceit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;but it isn't my tunnel,&rdquo; Jack eagerly protested, greatly amused
      at the Jew's talk; &ldquo;I am just an assistant, Mr. Cohen.&rdquo; Somehow he had
      grown suddenly smaller since the little man had been talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;of course, we are all assistants; Mr. Grayson assists at the
      bank, and I assist my man, Jacob, who makes such funny mistakes in the cut
      of his trousers. Oh, yes, that is quite the way life is made up. But about
      this tunnel? It is part of this new branch, is it not? Some of my friends
      have told me about it. And it is going straight through the mountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then before Jack or Peter could reply the speaker branched out into an
      account of the financing of the great Mt. Cenis tunnel, and why the
      founder of the house of Rothschild, who had &ldquo;assisted&rdquo; in its
      construction, got so many decorations from foreign governments; the talk
      finally switching off to the enamelled and jewelled snuff boxes of Baron
      James Rothschild, whose collection had been the largest in Europe; and
      what had become of it; and then by one of those illogical jumps&mdash;often
      indulged in by well-informed men discussing any subject that absorbs them&mdash;brought
      up at Voltaire and Taine and the earlier days of the Revolution in which
      one of the little tailor's ancestors had suffered spoliation and death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack sat silent&mdash;he had long since found himself out of his depth&mdash;drinking
      in every word of the talk, his wonderment increasing every moment, not
      only over Cohen, but over Peter as well, whom he had never before heard so
      eloquent or so learned, or so entertaining. When at last the little man
      rose to go, the boy, with one of those spontaneous impulses which was part
      of his nature, sprang from his seat, found the tailor's hat himself, and
      conducting him to the door, wished him good-night with all the grace and
      well-meant courtesy he would show a prince of the blood, should he ever be
      fortunate enough to meet one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter was standing on the mat, his back to the fire, when the boy
      returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack, you delight me!&rdquo; the old fellow cried. &ldquo;Your father couldn't have
      played host better. Really, I am beginning to believe I won't have to lock
      you up in an asylum. You're getting wonderfully sane, my boy,&mdash;real
      human. Jack, do you know that if you keep on this way I shall really begin
      to love you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what an extraordinary man,&rdquo; exclaimed Jack, ignoring Peter's
      compliment and badinage. &ldquo;Is there anything he does not know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;many things. Oh! a great many things. He doesn't know how to
      be rude, or ill bred, or purse-proud. He doesn't know how to snub people
      who are poorer than he is, or to push himself in where he isn't wanted; or
      to talk behind people's backs after he has accepted their hospitality.
      Just plain gentleman journeyman tailor, Jack. And now, my boy, be honest.
      Isn't he a relief after some of the people you and I meet every day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack settled again in his chair. His mind was not at all easy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he is, and that makes me afraid I was rude. I didn't mean to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;you acted just right. I wanted to draw him out so you could
      hear, and you must say that he was charming. And the best of it is that he
      could have talked equally well on a dozen other subjects.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some time Jack did not answer. Despite Peter's good opinion of him, he
      still felt that he had either said or done something he should be ashamed
      of. He knew it was his snap judgment about Cohen that had been the cause
      of the object lesson he had just received. Peter had not said so in so
      many words&mdash;it was always with a jest or a laugh that he corrected
      his faults, but he felt their truth all the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some minutes he leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling;
      then he said in a tone of conviction:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I WAS wrong about Mr. Cohen, Uncle Peter. I am always putting my foot in
      it. He is an extraordinary man. He certainly is, to listen to, whatever he
      is in his business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jack, my boy&mdash;you were only honest,&rdquo; Peter rejoined, passing
      over the covert allusion to the financial side of the tailor. &ldquo;You didn't
      like his race and you said so. Act first. Then you found out you were
      wrong and you said so. Act second. Then you discovered you owed him an
      ample apology and you bowed him out as if he had been a duke. Act third.
      And now comes the epilogue&mdash;Better be kind and human than be king!
      Eh, Jack?&rdquo; and the old gentleman threw back his head and laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack made no reply. He was through with Cohen;&mdash;something else was on
      his mind of far more importance than the likes and dislikes of all the
      Jews in Christendom. Something he had intended to lay before Peter at the
      very moment the old fellow had sent him for Isaac&mdash;something he had
      come all the way to New York to discuss with him; something that had
      worried him for days. There was but half an hour left; then he must get
      his bag and say good-night and good-by for another week or more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter noticed the boy's mood and laid his hand on his wrist. Somehow this
      was not the same Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't hurt you, my son, have I?&rdquo; he asked with a note of tenderness
      in his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurt me! You couldn't hurt me, Uncle Peter!&rdquo; There was no question of his
      sincerity as he spoke. It sprang straight from his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, what's the matter?&mdash;out with it. No secrets from
      blundering old Peter,&rdquo; he rejoined in a satisfied tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack laughed gently: &ldquo;Well, sir, it's about the work.&rdquo; It wasn't; but it
      might lead to it later on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Work!&mdash;what's the matter with the work! Anything wrong?&rdquo; There was a
      note of alarm now that made Jack reply hastily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it will be finished next month: we are lining up the arches this week
      and the railroad people have already begun to dump their cross ties along
      the road bed. It's about another job. Mr. MacFarlane, I am afraid, hasn't
      made much money on the fill and tunnel, but he has some other work offered
      him up in Western Maryland, which he may take, and which, if he does, may
      pay handsomely. He wants me to go with him. It means a shanty and a negro
      cook, as near as I can figure it, but I shall get used to that, I suppose.
      What do you think about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; chuckled Peter&mdash;it was not news; MacFarlane had told him all
      about it the week before at the Century&mdash;&ldquo;if you can keep the shanty
      tight and the cook sober you may weather it. It must be great fun living
      in a shanty. I never tried it, but I would like to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, perhaps it is,&mdash;but it has its drawbacks. I can't come to see
      you for one thing, and then the home will be broken up. Miss Ruth will go
      back to her grandmother's for a while, she says, and later on she will
      visit the Fosters at Newport and perhaps spend a month with Aunt Felicia.&rdquo;
       He called her so now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack paused for some further expression of opinion from his always ready
      adviser, but Peter's eyes were still fixed on the slow, dying fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be rather a rough job from what I saw of it,&rdquo; Jack went on. &ldquo;We
      are to run a horizontal shaft into some ore deposits. Mr. MacFarlane and I
      have been studying the plans for some time; we went over the ground
      together last month. That's why I didn't come to you last week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter twisted his head: &ldquo;What's the name of the nearest town?&rdquo; MacFarlane
      had told him but he had forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morfordsburg. I was there once with my father when I was a boy. He had
      some ore lands near where these are;&mdash;those he left me. The
      Cumberland property we always called it. I told you about it once. It will
      never amount to anything,&mdash;except by expensive boring. That is also
      what hurts the value of this new property the Maryland Mining Company
      owns. That's what they want Mr. MacFarlane for. Now, what would you do if
      you were me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of a town is Morfordsburg?&rdquo; inquired Peter, ignoring Jack's
      question, his head still buried between his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, like all other country villages, away from railroad connection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any good houses,&mdash;any to rent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;I saw two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you want my advice, do you, Jack?&rdquo; he burst out, rising erect in his
      seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'd stick to MacFarlane and take Ruth with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack broke out into a forced laugh. Peter had arrived by a short cut! Now
      he knew, he was a mind reader.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She won't go,&rdquo; he answered in a voice that showed he was open to
      conviction. Peter, perhaps, had something up his sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you asked her?&rdquo; The old fellow's eyes were upon him now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;not in so many words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, try it. She has always gone with her father; she loves the outdoor
      life and it loves her. I never saw her look as pretty as she is now, and
      she has her horse too. Try asking her yourself, beg her to come along and
      keep house and make a home for the three of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack leaned back in his seat, his face a tangle of hopes and fears. What
      was Uncle Peter driving at, anyhow?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have tried other things, and she would not listen,&rdquo; he said in a more
      positive tone. Again the two interviews he had had with Ruth came into his
      mind; the last one as if it had been yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try until she DOES listen,&rdquo; continued Peter. &ldquo;Tell her you will be very
      lonely if she doesn't go, and that she is the one and only thing in
      Corklesville that interests you outside of your work&mdash;and be sure you
      mention the dear girl first and the work last&mdash;and that you won't
      have another happy hour if she leaves you in the&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;Uncle Peter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not? It's a fact, isn't it? You were honest about Isaac; why not
      be honest with Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you're not,&mdash;you only tell her half what's in your heart. Tell
      her all of it! The poor child has been very much depressed of late, so
      Felicia tells me, over something that troubles her, and I wouldn't be at
      all surprised if you were at the bottom of it. Give yourself an
      overhauling and find out what you have said or done to hurt her. She will
      never forget you for pulling her father out of that hole, nor will he.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack bristled up: &ldquo;I don't want her to think of me in that way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you don't! don't you? Oh, of course not! You want her to think of you
      as a great and glorious young knight who goes prancing about the world
      doing good from habit, and yet you are so high and mighty that&mdash;Jack,
      you rascal, do you know you are the stupidest thing that breathes? You're
      like a turkey, my boy, trying to get over the top rail of a pen with its
      head in the air, when all it has to do is to stoop a little and march out
      on its toes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack rose from his seat and walked toward the fire, where he stood with
      one hand on the mantel. He knew Peter had a purpose in all his raillery
      and yet he dared not voice the words that trembled on his lips; he could
      tell the old fellow everything in his life except his love for Ruth and
      her refusal to listen to him. This was the bitterest of all his failures,
      and this he would not and could not pour into Peter's ears. Neither did he
      want Ruth to have Peter's help, nor Miss Felicia's; nor MacFarlane's; not
      anybody's help where her heart was concerned. If Ruth loved him that was
      enough, but he wouldn't have anybody persuade her to love him, or advise
      with her about loving him. How much Peter knew he could not say. Perhaps!&mdash;perhaps
      Ruth told him something!&mdash;something he was keeping to himself!
    </p>
    <p>
      As this last thought forced itself into his brain a great surge of joy
      swept over him. For a brief moment he stood irresolute. One of Peter's
      phrases now rang clear: &ldquo;Stoop a little!&rdquo; Stoop?&mdash;hadn't he done
      everything a man could do to win a woman, and had he not found the bars
      always facing him?
    </p>
    <p>
      With this his heart sank again. No, there was no use of thinking anything
      more about it, nor would he tell him. There were some things that even
      Peter couldn't understand,&mdash;and no wonder, when you think how many
      years had gone by since he loved any woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chime of the little clock rang out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack turned quickly: &ldquo;Eleven o'clock, Uncle Peter, and I must go; time's
      up. I hate to leave you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what about the shanty and the cook?&rdquo; said Peter, his eyes searching
      Jack's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go,&mdash;I intended to go all the time if you approved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what about Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ask me, Uncle Peter, not now.&rdquo; And he hurried off to pack his bag.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX
    </h2>
    <p>
      If Jack, after leaving Peter and racing for the ferry, had, under Peter's
      advice, formulated in his mind any plan by which he could break down
      Ruth's resolve to leave both her father and himself in the lurch and go
      out in the gay world alone, there was one factor which he must have left
      out of his calculations&mdash;and that was the unexpected.
    </p>
    <p>
      One expression of Peter's, however, haunted him all the way home:&mdash;that
      Ruth was suffering and that he had been the cause of it. Had he hurt her?&mdash;and
      if so, how and when? With this, the dear girl's face, with the look of
      pain on it which Miss Felicia had noticed, rose before him. Perhaps Peter
      was right. He had never thought of Ruth's side of the matter&mdash;had
      never realized that she, too, might have suffered. To-morrow he would go
      to her. If he could not win her for himself he could, at least, find out
      the cause and help relieve her pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea so possessed him that it was nearly dawn before he dropped to
      sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the morning everything changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a rain had never been known to fall&mdash;not in the memory of the
      oldest moss-back in the village&mdash;if any such ancient inhabitant
      existed. Twelve hours of it had made rivers of the streets, quagmires of
      the roads, and covered the crossings ankle-deep with mud. It had begun in
      the night while Isaac was expounding his views on snuff boxes, tunnels,
      and Voltaire to Peter and Jack, had followed Jack across the river and had
      continued to soak into his clothes until he opened Mrs. Hicks's front door
      with his private key. It was still pelting away the next morning, when
      Jack, alarmed at its fury, bolted his breakfast, and, donning his oilskins
      and rubber boots, hurried to the brick office from whose front windows he
      could get a view of the fill, the culvert, and the angry stream, and from
      whose rear windows could be seen half a mile up the raging torrent, the
      curve of the unfinished embankment flanking one side of the new boulevard
      which McGowan was building under a contract with the village.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly had he slipped off his boots and tarpaulins when MacFarlane, in
      mackintosh and long rubber boots, splashed in:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Breen,&rdquo; said his Chief, loosening the top button of his storm coat and
      threshing the water from his cap:
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack was on his feet in an instant:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you would take a look at the boulevard spillway. I know McGowan's
      work and how he skins it sometimes, and I'm getting worried. Coggins says
      the water is backing up, and that the slopes are giving way. You can see
      yourself what a lot of water is coming down&mdash;&rdquo; here they both gazed
      through the open window. &ldquo;I never saw that stream look like that since
      I've been here; there must be a frightful pressure now on McGowan's
      retaining walls. We should have a close shave if anything gave way above
      us. Our own culvert's working all right, but it's taxed now to its
      utmost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack unhooked his water-proof from a nail behind the door&mdash;he had
      began putting on his rubber boots again before MacFarlane finished
      speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will have to pay the bills, sir, if anything gives way&mdash;&rdquo; Jack
      replied in a determined voice. &ldquo;Garry told me only last week that McGowan
      had to take care of his own water; that was part of his contract. It comes
      under Garry's supervision, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know, and that may all be so, Breen,&rdquo; he replied with a flickering
      smile, &ldquo;but it won't do us any good,&mdash;or the road either. They want
      to run cars next month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door again swung wide, and a man drenched to the skin, the water
      glistening on his bushy gray beard stepped in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard you were here, sir, and had to see you. There's only four feet
      lee-way in our culvert, sir, and the scour's eating into the underpinning;
      I am just up from there. We are trying bags of cement, but it doesn't do
      much good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane caught up his hat and the two hurried down stream to the
      &ldquo;fill,&rdquo; while Jack, buttoning his oilskin jacket over his chest, and
      crowding his slouch hat close to his eyebrows and ears strode out into the
      downpour, his steps bent in the opposite direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight that met his eyes was even more alarming. The once quiet little
      stream, with its stretch of meadowland reaching to the foot of the steep
      hills, was now a swirl of angry reddish water careering toward the big
      culvert under the &ldquo;fill.&rdquo; There it struck the two flanking walls of solid
      masonry, doubled in volume and thus baffled, shot straight into and under
      the culvert and so on over the broad fields below.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up the stream toward the boulevard on the other side of its sky line,
      groups of men were already engaged carrying shovels, or lugging pieces of
      timber as they hurried along its edge, only to disappear for an instant
      and reappear again empty-handed. Shouts could be heard, as if some one
      were giving orders. Against the storm-swept sky, McGowan's short, squat
      figure was visible, his hands waving wildly to other gangs of men who were
      running at full speed toward where he stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon a knife-edge of water glistened along the crest of the earth
      embankment supporting the roadway of the boulevard, scattered into a dozen
      sluiceways, gashing the sides of the slopes, and then, before Jack could
      realize his own danger, the whole mass collapsed only to be swallowed up
      in a mighty torrent which leaped straight at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack wheeled suddenly, shouted to a man behind him to run for his life,
      and raced on down stream toward the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; a mile below where MacFarlane
      and his men, unconscious of their danger, were strengthening the culvert
      and its approaches.
    </p>
    <p>
      On swept the flood, tearing up trees, cabins, shanties, fences; swirling
      along the tortuous bed only to leap and swirl again, its solid front
      bristling with the debris it had wrenched loose in its mad onslaught, Jack
      in his line of flight keeping abreast of its mighty thrust, shouting as he
      ran, pressing into service every man who could help in the rescue.
    </p>
    <p>
      But MacFarlane had already been forewarned. The engineer of the morning
      express, who had crossed close to the boulevard at the moment the break
      occurred, had leaned far out of his cab as the train thundered by at right
      angles to the &ldquo;fill,&rdquo; and with cupped hands to his mouth, had hurled this
      yell into the ravine:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Water! Look out! Everything busted up above! Water! Water! Run, for God's
      sake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The men stood irresolute, but MacFarlane sprang to instant action.
      Grabbing the man next him,&mdash;an Italian who understood no English&mdash;he
      dragged him along, shouting to the others, the crowd swarming up, throwing
      away their shovels in their flight until the whole posse reached a point
      of safety near the mouth of the tunnel.
    </p>
    <p>
      There he turned and braced himself for the shock. He realized fully what
      had happened: McGowan's ill-constructed culvert had sagged and choked; a
      huge basin of water had formed behind it; the retaining walls had been
      undermined and the whole mass was sweeping down upon him. Would there be
      enough of it to overflow the crest line of his own &ldquo;fill&rdquo; or not? If it
      could stand the first on-thrust there was one chance in a hundred of its
      safety, provided the wing-walls and the foundations of the culvert held up
      its arch, thus affording gradual relief until the flood should have spent
      its force.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but a question of minutes. He could already see the trees sway as
      the mad flood struck them, the smaller ones rebounding, the large ones
      toppling over. Then came a dull roar like that of a tram through a covered
      bridge, and then a great wall of yellow suds, boiling, curling, its
      surface covered with sticks, planks, shingles, floating barrels, parts of
      buildings, dashed itself against the smoothed earth slopes of his own
      &ldquo;fill,&rdquo; surged a third of its height, recoiled on itself, swirled
      furiously again, and then inch by inch rose toward the top. Should it
      plunge over the crest, the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; would melt away as a rising tide melts a
      sand fort, the work of months be destroyed, and his financial ruin be a
      certainty.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the man who had crawled out on the shore end of the great cantilever
      bridge over the Ohio, and who had with his own hands practically set the
      last rebellious steel girder one hundred feet above the water level, had
      still some resources left. Grabbing a shovel from a railroad employee, he
      called to his men and began digging a trench on the tunnel end of the
      &ldquo;fill&rdquo; to form a temporary spillway should the top of the flood reach the
      crest of the road bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifty or more men sprang to his assistance with pick and shovel wherever
      one could stand and dig. The water had now reached within five feet of the
      top: the rise was slower, showing that the volume had lessened; the
      soakage, too, was helping, but the water still gained. The bottom of the
      trench, cut transversely across the road bed of the &ldquo;fill,&rdquo; out of which
      the dirt was still flying from scores of willing shovels, had reached the
      height of the flood line. It was wide enough and deep enough to take care
      of the slowly rising overflow and would relieve the pressure on the whole
      structure; but the danger was not there. What was to be feared was the
      scour on the down-stream&mdash;far side&mdash;slope of the &ldquo;fill.&rdquo; This
      also, was of loose earth: too great a gulch might mean total collapse.
    </p>
    <p>
      To lessen this scour MacFarlane had looted a carload of plank switched on
      to a siding, and a gang of men in charge of Jack,&mdash;who had now
      reached his Chief's side,&mdash;were dragging them along the downstream
      slope to form sluices with which to break the force of the scour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The top of the flood now poured into the mouth of the newly dug trench,
      biting huge mouthfuls of earth from its sides in its rush; spreading the
      reddish water fan-like over the down-stream slope: first into gullies;
      then a broad sluiceway that sunk out of sight in the soft earth; then
      crumblings, slidings of tons of sand and gravel, with here and there a
      bowlder washed clean; the men working like beavers,&mdash;here to free a
      rock, there to drive home a plank, the trench all the while deepening,
      widening&mdash;now a gulch ten feet across and as deep, now a canon
      through which surged a solid mass of frenzied water.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the completion of the first row of planking MacFarlane took up a
      position where he could overlook all parts of the work. Every now and then
      his eyes would rest on a water-gauge which he had improvised from the
      handle of a pick; the rise and fall of the wet mark showing him both the
      danger and the safety lines. He seemed the least interested man in the
      group. Once in a while he would consult his watch, counting the seconds,
      only to return to the gauge.
    </p>
    <p>
      That thousands of dollars' damage had so far been done did not seem to
      affect him in the least. Only when Jack would call out that everything so
      far was solid on the main &ldquo;fill&rdquo; did his calm face light up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tightening his wide slouch hat farther down on his head, he drew up the
      tops of his high-water boots and strode through the slush to the
      pick-handle. His wooden record showed that half an hour before the water
      had been rising at the rate of an inch every three minutes; that it had
      then taken six, and now required eight! He glanced at the sky; it had
      stopped raining and a light was breaking in the West.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pocketing his watch he beckoned to Jack:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The worst is over, Breen,&rdquo; he said in a voice of perfect calmness&mdash;the
      tone of a doctor after feeling a patient's pulse. &ldquo;Our culvert is doing
      its work and relieving the pressure. This water will be out of here by
      morning. Tell the foreman to keep those planks moving wherever they do any
      good, but they won't count much longer. You can see the difference already
      in the overflow. And now go up to the house and tell Ruth. She may not
      know we are all right and will be worrying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's heart gave a bound. No more delightful duty could devolve on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What shall I tell her about the damage if she asks me, sir?&rdquo; he demanded,
      hiding his pleasure in a perfunctory, businesslike tone, &ldquo;and she will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her it means all summer here for me and no new bonnets for her until
      next winter,&rdquo; replied MacFarlane with a grim smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I suppose, but I referred to the money loss,&rdquo; Jack laughed in reply.
      &ldquo;There is no use worrying her if we are not to blame for this.&rdquo; He didn't
      intend to worry her. He was only feeling about for some topic which would
      prolong his visit and encourage conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we are, it means some thousands of dollars on the wrong side of the
      ledger,&rdquo; answered MacFarlane after a pause, a graver tone in his voice.
      &ldquo;But don't tell Ruth that. Just give her my message about the bonnet&mdash;she
      will understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not if McGowan is liable,&rdquo; argued Jack. If Ruth was to hear bad news
      it could at least be qualified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends somewhat on the wording of his contract, Breen, and a good
      deal on whether this village wants to hold him to it. I'm not crossing any
      bridges of that kind, and don't you. What I'm worrying about is the number
      of days and nights it's going to take to patch this work so they can get
      trains through our tunnel&mdash;And, Breen&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; answered Jack, as he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
      There were wings on his feet now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get into some dry clothes before you come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While all this had been going on Ruth had stood at the window in the upper
      hall opposite the one banked with geraniums, too horrified to move. She
      had watched with the aid of her opera-glass the wild torrent rushing
      through the meadow, and she had heard the shouts of the people in the
      streets and the prolonged roar when the boulevard embankment gave way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hurried entrance and startled cry of the grocer's boy in the kitchen
      below, and the loud talk that followed, made her move to the head of the
      stairs. There she stood listening, her heart in her mouth, her knees
      trembling. Such expressions as &ldquo;drownded,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;more'n a hundred of 'em&mdash;&rdquo;
       reached her ears. Then came the words&mdash;&ldquo;de boss's work busted; ain't
      nobody seen him alive, so dey say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For an instant she clutched the hand rail to keep her from falling, then
      with a cry of terror she caught up an old cloth cape, bound a hat to her
      head with a loose veil, and was downstairs and into the street before the
      boy had reached the curb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mum,&rdquo; he stammered, breathlessly, his eyes bulging from his head,&mdash;&ldquo;Oh!
      it's awful, mum! Don't know how many's drownded! Everybody's shovelin' on
      de railroad dump, but dere ain't nothin' kin save it, dey say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raced on&mdash;across the long street, avoiding the puddles as best
      she could; past the Hicks Hotel&mdash;no sign of Jack anywhere&mdash;past
      the factory fence, until she reached the railroad, where she stopped,
      gathered her bedraggled skirts in her hand and then sped on over the
      cross-ties like a swallow, her little feet scarce touching the cinders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack had caught sight of the flying girl as she gained the railroad and
      awaited her approach; he supposed she was the half-crazed wife or daughter
      of some workman, bringing news of fresh disaster, until she approached
      near enough for him to note the shape and size of her boots and the way
      the hat and veil framed her face. But it was not until she uttered a cry
      of agony and ran straight toward him, that he sprang forward to meet her
      and caught her in his aims to keep her from falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Jack!&mdash;where is daddy&mdash;where&mdash;&rdquo; she gasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he is all right, Miss Ruth,&mdash;everybody's all right! Why did you
      come here? Oh! I am so sorry you have had this fright! Don't answer,&mdash;just
      lean on me until you get your breath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but are you sure he is safe? The grocer's boy said nobody had
      seen him alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I am sure! Just look across&mdash;there he is; nobody could
      ever mistake that old slouch hat of his. And look at the big 'fill.' It
      hasn't given an inch, Miss Ruth&mdash;think of it! What a shame you have
      had such a fright,&rdquo; he continued as he led her to a pile of lumber beside
      the track and moved out a dry plank where he seated her as tenderly as if
      she had been a frightened child, standing over her until she breathed
      easier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But then, if he is safe, why did you leave daddy? You are not hurt
      yourself, are you?&rdquo; she exclaimed suddenly, reaching up her hand and
      catching the sleeve of his tarpaulin, a great lump in her throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, hurt!&mdash;not a bit of it,&mdash;not a scratch of any kind,&mdash;see!&rdquo;
       As an object-lesson he stretched out his arm and with one clenched hand
      smote his chest gorilla fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are all wet&mdash;&rdquo; she persisted, in a more reassured tone. &ldquo;You
      must not stand here in this wind; you will get chilled to the bone. You
      must go home and get into dry clothes;&mdash;please say you will go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Something warm and scintillating started from Jack's toes as the words
      left her lips, surged along his spinal column, set his finger tips
      tingling and his heart thumping like a trip hammer. She had called him
      &ldquo;Jack!&rdquo; She had run a mile to rescue him and her father, and she was
      anxious lest he should endanger his precious life by catching cold. Cold!&mdash;had
      he been dragged through the whirlpool of Niagara in the dead of winter
      with the thermometer at zero and then cast on a stranded iceberg he would
      now be sizzling hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again she repeated her command,&mdash;this time in a more peremptory tone,
      the same anxious note in her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please come, if daddy doesn't want you any more you must go home at once.
      I wouldn't have you take cold for&mdash;&rdquo; she did not finish the sentence;
      something in his face told her that her solicitude might already have
      betrayed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I will go just as soon as you are rested a little, but you
      mustn't worry about me, Miss Ruth, I am as wet as a rat, I know, but I am
      that way half the time when it rains. These tarpaulins let in a lot of
      water&mdash;&rdquo; here he lifted his arms so she could see the openings
      herself&mdash;&ldquo;and then I got in over my boots trying to plug the holes in
      the sluiceway with some plank.&rdquo; He was looking down into her eyes now.
      Never had he seen her so pretty. The exercise had made roses of her
      cheeks, and the up-turned face framed by the thatch of a bonnet bound with
      the veil, reminded him of a Madonna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is everything all right with daddy? And was there nobody in the
      shanties?&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;Perhaps I might better try to get over where he
      is;&mdash;do you think I can? I would just like to tell him how glad I am
      it is no worse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, if you change boots with me,&rdquo; laughed Jack, determined to divert her
      mind; &ldquo;I was nearly swamped getting back here. That is where most of this
      mud came from&mdash;&rdquo; and Jack turned his long, clay-encrusted boot so
      that Ruth could see how large a section of the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; he had brought with
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth began to laugh. There was no ostensible reason why she should laugh;
      there was nothing about Jack's make-up to cause it. Indeed, she thought he
      had never looked so handsome, even if his hair were plastered to his
      temples under his water-soaked hat and his clothes daubed with mud.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet she did laugh:&mdash;At the way her veil got knotted under her
      chin,&mdash;so tightly knotted that Jack had to take both hands to loosen
      it, begging pardon for touching her throat, and hoping all the while that
      his clumsy fingers had not hurt her;&mdash;at the way her hat was
      crumpled, the flowers &ldquo;never,&mdash;never, being of the slightest use to
      anybody again&rdquo;; at her bedraggled skirts&mdash;&ldquo;such a sight, and sopping
      wet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Jack laughed, too,&mdash;agreeing to everything she said, until she
      reached that stage in the conversation, never omitted on occasions of this
      kind, when she declared, arching her head, that she must look like a
      perfect fright, which Jack at once refuted exclaiming that he had never
      seen her look so&mdash;he was going to say &ldquo;pretty,&rdquo; but checked himself
      and substituted &ldquo;well,&rdquo; instead, adding, as he wiped off her ridiculously
      small boots, despite her protests, with his wet handkerchief,&mdash;that
      cloud-bursts were not such bad things, after all, now that he was to have
      the pleasure of escorting her home.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the two walked back to the village, the afternoon sun, which had
      now shattered the lowering clouds, gilding and glorifying their two faces,
      Jack stopping at Mrs. Hicks's to change his clothes and Ruth keeping on to
      the house, where he was to join her an hour later, when the two would have
      a cup of tea and such other comforts as that young lady might prepare for
      her water-soaked lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      If ten minutes make half an hour, then it took Jack that long to rush
      upstairs, two steps at a time, burst into his room, strip off his boots,
      tear off his wet clothes, struggle into others jerked from his wardrobe,
      tie a loose, red-silk scarf under the rolling collar of his light-blue
      flannel shirt, slip into a grey pea-jacket and unmentionables, give his
      hair a brush and a promise, tilt a dry hat on one side of his head and
      skip down-stairs again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Mrs. Hicks had seen him coming and had tried to catch him as he flew
      out the door, hoping to get some more definite news of the calamity which
      had stirred the village, but he was gone before she could reach the front
      hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not thought of his better clothes; there might still be work to do,
      and his Chief might again need his services. Ruth would understand, he
      said to himself&mdash;all of which was true. Indeed, she liked him better
      in his high-water rubber boots, wide slouch hat and tarpaulins than in the
      more conventional suit of immaculate black with which he clothed his
      shapely body whenever he took her to one of the big dinners at one of the
      great houses on Washington Square.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she liked this suit best of all. She had been peeping through the
      curtains and her critical admiring eyes had missed no detail. She saw that
      the cavalier boots were gone, but she recognized the short pea-jacket and
      the loose rolling collar of the soft flannel shirt circling the strong,
      bronzed throat, and the dash of red in the silken scarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so it is not surprising that when he got within sight of her windows,
      his cheeks aflame with the crisp air, his eyes snapping with the joy of
      once more hearing her voice, her heart should have throbbed with an
      undefinable happiness and pride as she realized that for a time, at least,
      he was to be all her own. And yet when he had again taken her hand&mdash;the
      warmth of his last pressure still lingered in her palm&mdash;and had
      looked into her eyes and had said how he hoped he had not kept her
      waiting, all she could answer in reply was the non-committal remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now you look something like&rdquo;&mdash;at which Jack's heart gave a
      great bound, any compliment, however slight, being so much manna to his
      hungry soul; Ruth adding, as she led the way into the sitting-room, &ldquo;I
      lighted the wood fire because I was afraid you might still be cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And ten minutes had been enough for Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been one of those lightning changes which a pretty girl can always
      make when her lover is expected any instant and she does not want to lose
      a moment of his time, but it had sufficed. Something soft and clinging it
      was now; her lovely, rounded figure moving in its folds as a mermaid moves
      in the surf; her hair shaken out and caught up again in all its delicious
      abandon; her cheeks, lips, throat, rose-color in the joy of her
      expectancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat drinking it all in. Had a mass of outdoor roses been laid by his
      side, their fragrance filling the air, the beauty of their coloring
      entrancing his soul, he could not have been more intoxicated by their
      beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, strange to say, only commonplaces rose to his lips. All the
      volcano beneath, and only little spats of smoke and dying bits of ashes in
      evidence! Even the message of his Chief about her not getting a new bonnet
      all summer seemed a godsend under the circumstances. Had there been any
      basis for her self-denial he would not have told her, knowing how much
      anxiety she had suffered an hour before. But there was no real good reason
      why she should economize either in bonnets or in anything else she wanted.
      McGowan, of course, would be held responsible; for whatever damage had
      been done he would have to pay. He had been present when the young
      architect's watchful and trained eye had discovered some defects in the
      masonry of the wing walls of the McGowan culvert bridging the stream, and
      had heard him tell the contractor, in so many words that if the water got
      away and smashed anything below him he would charge the loss to his
      account. McGowan had groveled in dissent, but it had made no impression on
      Garry, whose duty it was to see that the work was properly carried out and
      whose signature loosened the village purse strings.
    </p>
    <p>
      None of these details would interest Ruth; nor was it necessary that they
      should. The bonnet, however, was another matter. Bonnets were worn over
      pretty heads and framed lovely hair and faces and eyes&mdash;one
      especially! And then again any pleasantry of her father's would tend to
      relieve her mind after the anxiety of the morning. Yes, the bonnet by all
      means!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I never gave you your father's message,&rdquo; he began, laying aside his
      cup, quite as if he had just remembered it. &ldquo;I ought to have done so
      before you hung up the hat you wore a while ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth looked up, smiling: &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; There was a roguish expression about her
      mouth as she spoke. She was very happy this afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He says you won't get a new bonnet all summer,&rdquo; continued Jack, toying
      with the end of the ribbon that floated from her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth put down her cup and half rose from her chair All the color had faded
      from her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he tell you that?&rdquo; she cried, her eyes staring into his, her voice
      trembling as if from some sudden fright.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack gazed at her in wonderment:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;of course he did and&mdash;Why, Miss Ruth!&mdash;Why, what's
      the matter! Have I said anything that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then something serious has happened,&rdquo; she interrupted in a decided tone.
      &ldquo;That is always his message to me when he is in trouble. That is what he
      telegraphed me when he lost the coffer-dam in the Susquehanna. Oh!&mdash;he
      did not really tell you that, did he, Mr. Breen?&rdquo; The old anxious note had
      returned&mdash;the one he had heard at the &ldquo;fill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but nothing serious HAS happened, Miss Ruth,&rdquo; Jack persisted,
      his voice rising in the intensity of his conviction, his earnest, truthful
      eyes fixed on hers&mdash;&ldquo;nothing that will not come out all right in the
      end. Please, don't be worried, I know what I am talking about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, it is serious,&rdquo; she rejoined with equal positiveness. &ldquo;You do
      not know daddy. Nothing ever discourages him, and he meets everything with
      a smile&mdash;but he cannot stand any more losses. The explosion was bad
      enough, but if this 'fill' is to be rebuilt, I don't know what will be the
      end of it. Tell me over again, please&mdash;how did he look when he said
      it?&mdash;and give me just the very words. Oh, dear, dear daddy! What will
      he do?&rdquo; The anxious note had now fallen to one of the deepest suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack repeated the message word for word, all his tenderness in his tones&mdash;patting
      her shoulder in his effort to comfort her&mdash;ending with a minute
      explanation of what Garry had told him: but Ruth would not be convinced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you don't know daddy,&rdquo; she kept repeating &ldquo;You don't know him. Nobody
      does but me. He would not have sent that message had he not meant it.
      Listen! There he is now!&rdquo; she cried, springing to her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had her arms around her father's neck, her head nestling on his
      shoulder before he had fairly entered the door. &ldquo;Daddy, dear, is it very
      bad?&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty bad, little girl,&rdquo; he answered, smoothing her cheek tenderly with
      his chilled fingers as he moved with her toward the fire, &ldquo;but it might
      have been worse but for the way Breen handled the men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will it all have to be rebuilt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was glad for Jack, but it was her father who now filled her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I can't tell, Puss&rdquo;&mdash;one of his pet names for her, particularly
      when she needed comforting&mdash;&ldquo;but it's safe for the night, anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have worked so hard&mdash;so hard!&rdquo; Her beautiful arms, bare from
      the elbow, were still around his neck, her cheek pressed close&mdash;her
      lovely, clinging body in strong contrast to the straight, gray, forceful
      man in the wet storm-coat, who stood with arms about her while he caressed
      her head with his brown fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Puss, we have one consolation&mdash;it wasn't our fault&mdash;the
      'fill' is holding splendidly although it has had a lively shaking up. The
      worst was over in ten minutes, but it was pretty rough while it lasted. I
      don't think I ever saw water come so fast. I saw you with Breen, but I
      couldn't reach you then. Look out for your dress, daughter. I'm pretty
      wet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He released her arms from his neck and walked toward the fire, stripping
      off his gray mackintosh as he moved. There he stretched his hands to the
      blaze sod went on: &ldquo;As I say, the 'fill' is safe and will stay so, for the
      water is going down rapidly; dropped ten feet, Breen, since you left. My!&mdash;but
      this fire feels good! Got into something dry&mdash;did you, Breen? That's
      right. But I am not satisfied about the way the down-stream end of the
      culvert acts&rdquo;&mdash;this also was addressed to Jack&mdash;&ldquo;I am afraid
      some part of the arch has caved in. It will be bad if it has&mdash;we
      shall know in the morning. You weren't frightened, Puss, were you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer. She had heard that cheery, optimistic note in her
      father's voice before; she knew how much of it was meant for her ears.
      None of his disasters were ever serious, to hear daddy talk&mdash;&ldquo;only
      the common lot of the contracting engineer, little girl,&rdquo; he would say,
      kissing her good-night, while he again pored over his plans, sometimes
      until daylight.
    </p>
    <p>
      She crept up to him the closer and nestled her fingers inside his collar&mdash;an
      old caress of hers when she was a child, then looking up into his eyes she
      asked with almost a throb of suffering in her voice, &ldquo;Is it as bad as the
      coffer-dam, daddy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked on in silence. He dared not add a word of comfort of his own
      while his Chief held first place in soothing her fears.
    </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane passed his hand over her forehead&mdash;&ldquo;Don't ask me, child!
      Why do you want to bother your dear head over such things, Puss?&rdquo; he
      asked, as he stroked her hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I must and will know. Tell me the truth,&rdquo; she demanded, lifting
      her head, a note of resolve in her voice. &ldquo;I can help you the better if I
      know it all.&rdquo; Some of the blood of one of her great-great-grandmothers,
      who had helped defend a log-house in Indian times, was asserting itself.
      She could weep, but she could fight, too, if necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I'm afraid it is worse than the coffer-dam,&rdquo; he answered in
      all seriousness. &ldquo;It may be a matter of twelve or fifteen thousand dollars&mdash;maybe
      more, if we have to rebuild the 'fill.' I can't tell yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth released her grasp, moved to the sofa and sank down, her chin resting
      on her hand. Twelve or fifteen thousand dollars! This meant ruin to
      everybody&mdash;to her father, to&mdash;a new terror now flashed into her
      mind&mdash;to Jack&mdash;yes, Jack! Jack would have to go away and find
      other work&mdash;and just at the time, too, when he was getting to be the
      old Jack once more. With this came another thought, followed by an
      instantaneous decision&mdash;what could she do to help? Already she had
      determined on her course. She would work&mdash;support herself&mdash;relieve
      her father just that much.
    </p>
    <p>
      An uncomfortable silence followed. For some moments no one spoke. Her
      father, stifling a sigh, turned slowly, pushed a chair to the fire and
      settled into it, his rubber-encased knees wide apart, so that the warmth
      of the blaze could reach most of his body. Jack found a seat beside him,
      his mind on Ruth and her evident suffering, his ears alert for any fresh
      word from his Chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot to tell you, Breen,&rdquo; MacFarlane said at last, &ldquo;that I came up
      the track just now as far as the round-house with the General Manager of
      the Road. He has sent one of his engineers to look after that Irishman's
      job before he can pull it to pieces to hide his rotten work&mdash;that is,
      what is left of it. Of course it means a lawsuit or a fight in the Village
      Council. That takes time and money, and generally costs more than you get.
      I've been there before, Breen, and know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he understand about McGowan's contract?&rdquo; inquired Jack mechanically,
      his eyes on Ruth. Her voice still rang in his ears&mdash;its pathos and
      suffering stirred him to his very depths.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I told him all about it,&rdquo; MacFarlane replied. &ldquo;The Road will
      stand behind us&mdash;so the General Manager says&mdash;but every day's
      delay is ruinous to them. It will be night-and-day work for us now, and no
      let-up. I have notified the men.&rdquo; He rose from his seat and crossed to his
      daughter's side, and leaning over, drew her toward him: &ldquo;Brace up, little
      girl,&rdquo; there was infinite tenderness in his cadences&mdash;&ldquo;it's all in a
      lifetime. There are only two of us, you know&mdash;just you and me,
      daughter&mdash;just you and me&mdash;just two of us. Kiss me, Puss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Regaining his full height he picked up his storm-coat from the chair where
      he had flung it, and with the remark to Jack, that he would change his
      clothes, moved toward the door. There he beckoned to him, waited until he
      had reached his side, and whispering in his ear: &ldquo;Talk to her and cheer
      her up, Breen. Poor little girl&mdash;she worries so when anything like
      this happens&rdquo;&mdash;mounted the stairs to his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't worry, Miss Ruth,&rdquo; said Jack in comforting tones as he returned to
      where she sat. &ldquo;We will all pull out yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is good of you to say so,&rdquo; she replied, lifting her head and leaning
      back so that she could look into his eyes the better, &ldquo;but I know you
      don't think so. Daddy was just getting over his losses on the Susquehanna
      bridge. This work would have set him on his feet. Those were his very
      words&mdash;and he was getting so easy in his mind, too&mdash;and we had
      planned so many things!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can still go to Newport,&rdquo; Jack pleaded. &ldquo;We will be here some
      months yet, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;but I won't go a step anywhere. I could not leave him now&mdash;that
      is, not as long as I can help him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But aren't you going to the Fosters' and Aunt Felicia's?&rdquo; She might not
      be, but it was good all the same to hear her deny it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to anybody's!&rdquo; she replied, with an emphasis that left no doubt in
      his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack's heart gave a bound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you were going if we went to Morfordsburg,&rdquo; he persisted. He was
      determined to get at the bottom of all his misgivings. Perhaps, after all,
      Peter was right.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth caught her breath. The name of the town had reopened a vista which
      her anxiety over her father's affairs had for the moment shut out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but that is over now. I am going to stay here and help daddy.&rdquo;
       Again the new fear tugged at her heart. &ldquo;You are going to stay, too,
      aren't you, Mr. Breen?&rdquo; she added in quick alarm. &ldquo;You won't leave him,
      will you?&mdash;not if&mdash;&rdquo; again the terrible money loss rose before
      her. What if there should not be money enough to pay Jack?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me! Why, Miss Ruth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But suppose he was not able to&mdash;&rdquo; she could not frame the rest of
      the sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can't suppose anything that would make me leave him, or the work.&rdquo;
       This also came with an emphasis of positive certainty. &ldquo;I have never been
      so happy as I have been here. I never knew what it was to be myself. I
      never knew,&rdquo; he added in softened tones, &ldquo;what it was to really live until
      I joined your father. Only last night Uncle Peter and I were talking about
      it. 'Stick to Mac,' the dear old fellow said.&rdquo; It was to Ruth, but he
      dared not express himself, except in parables. &ldquo;Then you HAD thought of
      going?&rdquo; she asked quickly, a shadow falling across her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;&rdquo; he hesitated&mdash;&ldquo;I had only thought of STAYING. It was you
      who were going&mdash;I was all broken up about being left here alone, and
      Uncle Peter wanted to know why I did not beg you to stay, and I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth turned her face toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am going to stay,&rdquo; she answered simply. She did not dare to trust
      herself further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&mdash;and now I don't care what happens!&rdquo; he exclaimed with a thrill
      in his voice. &ldquo;If you will only trust me, Miss Ruth, and let me come in
      with you and your father. Let me help! Don't let there be only two&mdash;let
      us be three! Don't you see what a difference it would make? I will work
      and save every penny I can for him and take every bit of the care from his
      shoulders; but can't you understand how much easier it would be if you
      would only let me help you too? I could hardly keep the tears back a
      moment ago when I saw you sink down here. I can't see you unhappy like
      this and not try to comfort you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do help me,&rdquo; she murmured softly. Her eyes had now dropped to the
      cushion at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but not&mdash;Oh, Ruth, don't you see how I love you! What
      difference does this accident make&mdash;what difference does anything
      make if we have each other?&rdquo; He had his hand on hers now, and was bending
      over, his eyes eager for some answer in her own. &ldquo;I have suffered so,&rdquo; he
      went on, &ldquo;and I am so tired and so lonely without you. When you wouldn't
      understand me that time when I came to you after the tunnel blew up, I
      went about like one in a dream&mdash;and then I determined to forget it
      all, and you, and everything&mdash;but I couldn't, and I can't now. Maybe
      you won't listen&mdash;but please&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth withdrew her hand quickly and straightened her shoulders. The mention
      of the tunnel and what followed had brought with it a rush of memories
      that had caused her the bitterest tears of her life. And then again what
      did he mean by &ldquo;helping&rdquo;?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack,&rdquo; she said slowly, as if every word gave her pain, &ldquo;listen to me.
      When you saved my father's life and I wanted to tell you how much I
      thanked you for it, you would not let me tell you. Is not that true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not want your gratitude, Ruth,&rdquo; he pleaded in excuse, his lips
      quivering, &ldquo;I wanted your love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why, then, should I not say to you now that I do not want your pity?
      Is it because you are&mdash;&rdquo; her voice sank to a whisper, every note told
      of her suffering&mdash;&ldquo;you are&mdash;sorry for me, Jack, that you tell me
      you love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack sprang to his feet and stood looking down upon her. The cruelty of
      her injustice smote his heart. Had a man's glove been dashed in his face
      he could not have been more incensed. For a brief moment there surged
      through him all he had suffered for her sake; the sleepless nights, the
      days of doubts and misunderstandings! And it had come to this! Again he
      was treated with contempt&mdash;again his heart and all it held was
      trampled on. A wild protest rose in his throat and trembled on his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that instant she raised her eyes and looked into his. A look so
      pleading&mdash;so patient&mdash;so weary of the struggle&mdash;so ready to
      receive the blow&mdash;that the hot words recoiled in his throat. He bent
      his head to search her eyes the better. Down in their depths, as one sees
      the bottom of a clear pool he read the truth, and with it came a reaction
      that sent the hot blood rushing through his veins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sorry for you, my darling!&rdquo; he burst out joyously&mdash;&ldquo;I who love you
      like my own soul! Oh, Ruth!&mdash;Ruth!&mdash;my beloved!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had her in his arms now, her cheek to his, her yielding body held
      close.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then their lips met.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scribe lays down his pen. This be holy ground on which we tread. All
      she has she has given him: all the fantasies of her childhood, all the
      dreams of her girlhood, all her trust, her loyalty&mdash;her reverence&mdash;all
      to the very last pulsation of her being.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this girl he holds in his arms! So pliant, so yielding, so pure and
      undefiled! And the silken sheen and intoxicating perfume of her hair, and
      the trembling lashes shading the eager, longing, soul-hungry eyes; and the
      way the little pink ears nestle; and the fair, white, dovelike throat,
      with its ripple of lace. And then the dear arms about his neck and the
      soft clinging fingers that are intertwined with his own! And more
      wonderful still, the perfect unison, the oneness, the sameness; no jar, no
      discordant note; mind, soul, desire&mdash;a harmony.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wise men say there are no parallels in nature; that no one thing in
      the wide universe exactly mates and matches any other one thing; that each
      cloud has differed from every other cloud-form in every hour of the day
      and night, to-day, yesterday and so on back through the forgotten
      centuries; that no two leaves in form, color, or texture, lift the same
      faces to the sun on any of the million trees; that no wave on any beach
      curves and falls as any wave has curved and fallen before&mdash;not since
      the planet cooled. And so it is with the drift of wandering winds; with
      the whirl and crystals of driving snow, with the slant and splash of rain.
      And so, too, with the flight of birds; the dash and tumble of restless
      brooks; the roar of lawless thunder and the songs of birds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one exception is when we hold in our arms the woman we love, and for
      the first time drink in her willing soul through her lips. Then, and only
      then, does the note of perfect harmony ring true through the spheres.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a long time they sat perfectly still. Not many words had passed, and
      these were only repetitions of those they had used before. &ldquo;Such dear
      hands,&rdquo; Jack would say, and kiss them both up and down the fingers, and
      then press the warm, pink shell palm to his lips and kiss it again,
      shutting his eyes, with the reverence of a devotee at the feet of the
      Madonna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Jack dear,&rdquo; Ruth would murmur, as if some new thought had welled up
      in her heart&mdash;and then nothing would follow, until Jack would loosen
      his clasp a little&mdash;just enough to free the dear cheek and say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on, my darling,&rdquo; and then would come&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing, Jack&mdash;I&mdash;&rdquo; and once more their lips would meet.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only when MacFarlane's firm step was heard on the stairs outside
      that the two awoke to another world. Jack reached his feet first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we tell him?&rdquo; he asked, looking down into her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, tell him,&rdquo; braved out Ruth, uptilting her head with the
      movement of a fawn surprised in the forest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo; asked Jack, his eager eyes on the opening door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, this very minute. I never keep anything from daddy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane came sauntering in, his strong, determined, finely cut features
      illumined by a cheery smile. He had squared things with himself while he
      had been dressing: &ldquo;Hard lines, Henry, isn't it?&rdquo; he had asked of himself,
      a trick of his when he faced any disaster like the present. &ldquo;Better get
      Ruth off somewhere, Henry, don't you think so? Yes, get her off to-morrow.
      The little girl can't stand everything, plucky as she is.&rdquo; It was this
      last thought of his daughter that had sent the cheery smile careering
      around his firm lips. No glum face for Ruth!
    </p>
    <p>
      They met him half-way down the room, the two standing together, Jack's arm
      around her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daddy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear.&rdquo; He had not yet noted the position of the two, although he had
      caught the joyous tones in her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack and I want to tell you something. You won't be cross, will you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cross, Puss!&rdquo; He stopped and looked at her wonderingly. Had Jack
      comforted her? Was she no longer worried over the disaster?
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack released his arm and would have stepped forward, but she held him
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jack,&mdash;let me tell him. You said a while ago, daddy, that there
      were only two of us&mdash;just you and I&mdash;and that it had always been
      so and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, isn't it true, little girl?&rdquo; It's extraordinary how blind and
      stupid a reasonably intelligent father can be on some occasions, and this
      one was as blind as a cave-locked fish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it WAS true, daddy, when you went upstairs, but&mdash;but&mdash;it
      isn't true any more! There are three of us now!&rdquo; She was trembling all
      over with uncontrollable joy, her voice quavering in her excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack tried to speak, but she laid her hand on his lips with&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, please don't, Jack&mdash;not yet&mdash;you will spoil everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane still looked on in wonderment. She was much happier, he could
      see, and he was convinced that Jack was in some way responsible for the
      change, but it was all a mystery yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three of us!&rdquo; MacFarlane repeated mechanically&mdash;&ldquo;well, who is the
      other, Puss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jack, of course! Who else could it be but Jack? Oh! Daddy!&mdash;Please&mdash;please&mdash;we
      love each other so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That night a telegram went singing down the wires leaving a trail of light
      behind. A sleepy, tired girl behind an iron screen recorded it on a slip
      of yellow paper, enclosed it in an envelope, handed it to a half-awake
      boy, who strolled leisurely up to Union Square, turned into Fifteenth
      Street, mounted Peter's front stoop and so on up three flights of stairs
      to Peter's door. There he awoke the echoes into life with his knuckles.
    </p>
    <p>
      In answer, a charming and most courtly old gentleman in an embroidered
      dressing-gown and slippers, a pair of gold spectacles pushed high up on
      his round, white head, his index finger marking the place in his book,
      opened the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Telegram for Mr. Grayson,&rdquo; yawned the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! but there were high jinks inside the cosey red room with its low
      reading lamp and easy chairs, when Peter tore that envelope apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack&mdash;Ruth&mdash;engaged!&rdquo; he cried, throwing down his book.
      &ldquo;MacFarlane delighted&mdash;What!&mdash;WHAT? Oh, Jack, you rascal!&mdash;you
      did take my advice, did you? Well I&mdash;well! I'll write them both&mdash;No,
      I'll telegraph Felicia&mdash;No, I won't!&mdash;I'll&mdash;Well!&mdash;well!&mdash;WELL!
      Did you ever hear anything like that?&rdquo; and again his eyes devoured the
      yellow slip.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not a word of the freshet; of the frightful loss; of the change of plans
      for the summer; of the weeks of delay and the uncertain financial outlook!
      And alas, dear reader&mdash;not a syllable, as you have perhaps noticed,
      of poor daddy tottering on the brink of bankruptcy; nor the slightest
      reference to brave young women going out alone in the cold, cold world to
      earn their bread! What were floods, earthquakes, cyclones, poverty, debt&mdash;what
      was anything that might, could, would or should happen, compared to the
      joy of their plighted troth!
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Summer has come: along the banks of the repentant stream the willows are
      in full leaf; stretches of grass, braving the coal smoke and dust hide the
      ugly red earth. The roads are dry again; the slopes of the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; once
      more are true; all the arches in the mouth of the tunnel are finished; the
      tracks have been laid and the first train has crawled out on the newly
      tracked road where it haggled, snorted and stopped, only to crawl back and
      be swallowed by The Beast.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with the first warm day came Miss Felicia. &ldquo;When your wretched,
      abominable roads, my dear, dry up so that a body can walk without sinking
      up to their neck in mud&mdash;&rdquo; ran Miss Felicia's letter in answer to
      Ruth's invitation,&mdash;&ldquo;I'll come down for the night,&rdquo; and she did,
      bringing Ruth half of her laces, now that she was determined to throw
      herself away on &ldquo;that good-for nothing&mdash;Yes, Jack, I mean you and
      nobody else, and you needn't stand there laughing at me, for every word of
      it's true; for what in the world you two babes in the wood are going to
      live on no mortal man knows;&rdquo; Ruth answering with her arm tight around the
      dear lady's neck,&mdash;a liberty nobody,&mdash;not even Peter, ever dared
      take&mdash;and a whisper in her ear that Jack was the blessedest ever, and
      that she loved him so sometimes she was well-nigh distracted&mdash;a
      statement which the old lady remarked was literally true.
    </p>
    <p>
      And we may be sure that Peter came too&mdash;and we may be equally
      positive that no impassable roads could have held him back. Indeed, on the
      very afternoon of the very day following the receipt of the joyful
      telegram, he had closed his books with a bang, performed the Moses act
      until he had put them into the big safe, slipped on his coat, given an
      extra brush to his hat and started for the ferry. All that day his face
      had been in a broad smile; even the old book-keeper noticed it and so did
      Patrick, the night-watchman and sometimes porter; and so did the line of
      depositors who inched along to his window and were greeted with a
      flash-light play of humor on his face instead of the more sedate, though
      equally kindly expression which always rested on his features when at
      work. But that was nothing to the way he hugged Jack and Ruth&mdash;separately&mdash;together&mdash;then
      Ruth, then Jack&mdash;and then both together again, only stopping at
      MacFarlane, whose hand he grabbed with a &ldquo;Great day! hey? Great day! By
      Cricky, Henry, these are the things that put new wine into old leather
      bottles like you and me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And this was not all that the spring and summer had brought. Fresh sap had
      risen in Jack's veins. This girl by his side was his own&mdash;something
      to work for&mdash;something to fight for. MacFarlane felt the expansion
      and put him in full charge of the work, relieving him often in the night
      shifts, when the boy would catch a few hours' sleep, and when, you may be
      sure, he stopped long enough at the house to get his arms around Ruth
      before he turned in for the night or the morning, or whenever he did turn
      in.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the injury which McGowan's slipshod work had caused to the &ldquo;fill,&rdquo;
       the question of damages and responsibility for the same still hung in the
      air. The &ldquo;fill&rdquo; did not require rebuilding&mdash;nor did any part of the
      main work&mdash;a great relief. The loss had not, therefore, been as great
      as MacFarlane had feared. Moreover, the scour and slash of the down-stream
      slope, thanks to Jack's quick work, required but few weeks to repair; the
      culvert, contrary to everybody's expectation, standing the test, and the
      up-stream slope showing only here and there marks of the onslaught. The
      wing walls were the worst; these had to be completely rebuilt, involving
      an expense of several thousands of dollars, the exact amount being one
      point in the discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry, to his credit, had put his official foot down with so strong a
      pressure that McGowan, fearing that he would have to reconstruct
      everything from the bed of the stream up, if he held out any longer,
      agreed to arbitrate the matter, he selecting one expert and MacFarlane the
      other; and the Council&mdash;that is, Garry&mdash;the third. MacFarlane
      had chosen the engineer of the railroad who had examined McGowan's masonry
      an hour after the embankment had given way. McGowan picked out a brother
      contractor and Garry wrote a personal letter to Holker Morris, following
      it up by a personal visit to the office of the distinguished architect,
      who, when he learned that not only Garry, MacFarlane, and Jack were
      concerned in the outcome of the investigation, but also Ruth&mdash;whose
      marriage might depend on the outcome,&mdash;broke his invariable rule of
      never getting mixed up in anybody's quarrels, and accepted the position
      without a murmur.
    </p>
    <p>
      This done everybody interested sat down to await the result of the
      independent investigations of each expert, Garry receiving the reports in
      sealed envelopes and locking them in the official safe, to be opened in
      full committee at its next monthly meeting, when a final report, with
      recommendations as to liability and costs, would be drawn up; the same,
      when adopted by a majority of the Council the following week, to be
      binding.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was during this suspense&mdash;it happened really on the morning
      succeeding the one on which Garry had opened the official envelopes&mdash;that
      an envelope of quite a different character was laid on Jack's table by the
      lady with the adjustable hair, who invariably made herself acquainted with
      as much of that young gentleman's mail as could be gathered from square
      envelopes sealed in violet wax, or bearing family crests in low relief, or
      stamped with monograms in light blue giving out delicate perfumes, each
      one of which that lady sniffed with great satisfaction; to say nothing of
      business addresses and postal-cards,&mdash;the latter being readable, and,
      therefore, her delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      This envelope, however, was different from any she had ever fumbled,
      sniffed at, or pondered over. It was not only of unusual size, but it bore
      in the upper left-hand corner in bold black letters the words:
    </p>
    <p>
      ARTHUR BREEN &amp; COMPANY, BANKERS.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was this last word which set the good woman to thinking. Epistles from
      banks were not common,&mdash;never found at all, in fact, among the
      letters of her boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack was even more astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call at the office,&rdquo; the letter ran, &ldquo;the first time you are in New York,&mdash;the
      sooner the better. I have some information regarding the ore properties
      that may interest you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the young fellow had not heard from his uncle in many moons, the
      surprise was all the greater. Nor, if the truth be known, had he laid eyes
      on that gentleman since he left the shelter of his home, except at
      Corinne's wedding,&mdash;and then only across the church, and again in the
      street, when his uncle stopped and shook his hand in a rather perfunctory
      way, complimenting him on his bravery in rescuing MacFarlane, an account
      of which he had seen in the newspapers, and ending by hoping that his new
      life would &ldquo;drop some shekels into his clothes.&rdquo; Mrs. Breen, on the
      contrary, while she had had no opportunity of expressing her mental
      attitude toward the exile, never having seen him since he walked out of
      her front door, was by no means oblivious to Jack's social and business
      successes. &ldquo;I hear Jack was at Mrs. Portman's last night,&rdquo; she said to her
      husband the morning after one of the ex-Clearing House Magnate's great
      receptions. &ldquo;They say he goes everywhere, and that Mr. Grayson has adopted
      him and is going to leave him all his money,&rdquo; to which Breen had grunted
      back that Jack was welcome to the Portmans and the Portmans to Jack, and
      that if old Grayson had any money, which he very much doubted, he'd better
      hoist it overboard than give it to that rattlebrain. Mrs. Breen heaved a
      deep sigh. Neither she nor Breen had been invited to the Portmans', nor
      had Corinne (the Scribe has often wondered whether the second scoop in
      Mukton was the cause)&mdash;and yet Ruth MacFarlane, and Jack and Miss
      Felicia Grayson, and a lot more out-of-town people&mdash;so that
      insufferable Mrs. Bennett had told her&mdash;had come long distances to be
      present, the insufferable adding significantly that &ldquo;Miss MacFarlane
      looked too lovely and was by all odds the prettiest girl in the room, and
      as for young Breen, really she could have fallen in love with him
      herself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack tucked his uncle's letter in his pocket, skipped over to read it to
      Ruth and MacFarlane, in explanation of his enforced absence for the day,
      and kept on his way to the station. The missive referred to the
      Morfordsburg contract, of course, and was evidently an attempt to gain
      information regarding the proposed work, Arthur Breen &amp; Co. being the
      financial agents of many similar properties.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take care of him, sir,&rdquo; Jack had said as he left his Chief. &ldquo;My
      uncle, no doubt, means all right, and it is just as well to hear what he
      says&mdash;besides he has been good enough to write to me, and of course I
      must go, but I shall not commit myself one way or the other&mdash;&rdquo; and
      with a whispered word in Ruth's ear, a kiss and a laugh, he left the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he turned down the short street leading to the station, he caught sight
      of Garry forging ahead on his way to the train. That rising young
      architect, chairman of the Building Committee of the Council, trustee of
      church funds, politician and all-round man of the world&mdash;most of
      which he carried in a sling&mdash;seemed in a particularly happy frame of
      mind this morning judging from the buoyancy with which he stepped. This
      had communicated itself to the gayety of his attire, for he was dressed in
      a light-gray check suit, and wore a straw hat (the first to see the light
      of summer) with a green ribbon about the crown,&mdash;together with a
      white waistcoat and white spats, the whole enriched by a red rose bud
      which Corinne had with her own hands pinned in his buttonhole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, hello! Jack, old man! just the very fellow I'm looking for,&rdquo; cried
      the joyous traveller. &ldquo;You going to New York?&mdash;So am I,&mdash;go
      every day now,&mdash;got something on ice,&mdash;the biggest thing I've
      ever struck. I'll show that uncle of yours that two can play at his game.
      He hasn't lifted his hand to help us, and I don't want him to,&mdash;Cory
      and I can get along; but you'd think he'd come out and see us once in a
      while, wouldn't you, or ask after the baby; Mrs. Breen comes, but not
      Breen. We live in the country and have tar on our heels, he thinks. Here,&mdash;sit
      by the window! Now let's talk of something else. How's Miss Ruth and the
      governor? He's a daisy;&mdash;best engineer anywhere round here. Yes,
      Cory's all right. Baby keeps her awake half the night; I've moved out and
      camp upstairs; can't stand it. Oh, by the way, I see you are about
      finishing up on the railroad work. I'll have something to say to you next
      week on the damage question. Got all the reports in last night. I tell
      you, my old chief, Mr. Morris, is a corker! What he doesn't know about
      masonry isn't worth picking up;&mdash;can't fool him! That's what's the
      matter with half of our younger men; they sharpen lead-pencils, mix ink,
      and think they are drawing; or they walk down a stone wall and don't know
      any more what's behind it and what holds it up than a child. Mr. Morris
      can not only design a wall, but he can teach some first-class mechanics
      how to lay it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked out the window and watched the fences fly past. For the moment
      he made no reply to Garry's long harangue&mdash;especially the part
      referring to the report. Anxious as he was to learn the result of the
      award, he did not want the facts from the chairman of the committee in
      advance of the confirmation by the Council.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you have on ice, Garry?&rdquo; he asked at last with a laugh,
      yielding to an overpowering conviction that he must change the subject&mdash;&ldquo;a
      new Corn Exchange? Nobody can beat you in corn exchanges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not by a long shot, Jack,&mdash;got something better; I am five thousand
      ahead now, and it's all velvet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gold-mine, Garry?&rdquo; queried Jack, turning his head. &ldquo;Another Mukton Lode?
      Don't forget poor Charlie Gilbert; he's been clerking it ever since, I
      hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, a big warehouse company; I'll get the buildings later on. That Mukton
      Lode deal was a clear skin game, Jack, if it is your uncle, and A. B.
      &amp; Co. got paid up for it&mdash;downtown and uptown. You ought to hear
      the boys at the Magnolia talk about it. My scheme is not that kind; I'm on
      the ground floor; got some of the promoter's stock. When you are through
      with your railroad contract and get your money, let me know. I can show
      you a thing or two;&mdash;open your eyes! No Wall Street racket, remember,&mdash;just
      a plain business deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There won't be much money left over, Garry, from the 'fill' and tunnel
      work, if we keep on. We ought to have a cyclone next to finish up with;
      we've had about everything else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're all through, Jack,&rdquo; replied Garry with emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll believe that when I see it,&rdquo; said Jack with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, Jack, YOU ARE ALL THROUGH. Do you understand? Don't ask me
      any questions and I won't tell you any lies. The first thing that strikes
      you will be a check, and don't you forget it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's heart gave a bound. The information had come as a surprise and
      without his aid, and yet it was none the less welcome. The dreaded anxiety
      was over; he knew now what the verdict of the Council would be. He had
      been right from the first in this matter, and Garry had not failed despite
      the strong political pressure which must have been brought against him.
      The new work now would go on and he and Ruth could go to Morfordsburg
      together! He could already see her trim, lovely figure in silhouette
      against the morning light, her eyes dancing, her face aglow in the crisp
      air of the hills.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry continued to talk on as they sped into the city, elaborating the
      details of the warehouse venture in which he had invested his present and
      some of his future commissions, but his words fell on stony ground. The
      expected check was the only thing that filled Jack's thoughts. There was
      no doubt in his mind now that the decision would be in MacFarlane's favor,
      and that the sum, whether large or small, would be paid without delay,&mdash;Garry
      being treasurer and a large amount of money being still due McGowan on the
      embankment and boulevard. It would be joyous news to Ruth, he said to
      himself, with a thrill surging through his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack left Garry on the Jersey side and crossed alone. The boy loved the
      salt air in his face and the jewelled lights flashed from the
      ever-restless sea. He loved, too, the dash and vim of it all. Forcing his
      way through the crowds of passengers to the forward part of the boat, he
      stood where he could get the full sweep of the wonderful panorama:
    </p>
    <p>
      The jagged purple line of the vast city stretching as far as the eye could
      reach; with its flat-top, square-sided, boxlike buildings, with here and
      there a structure taller than the others; the flash of light from
      Trinity's spire, its cross aflame; the awkward, crab-like movements of
      innumerable ferry-boats, their gaping alligator mouths filled with human
      flies; the impudent, nervous little tugs, spitting steam in every passing
      face; the long strings of sausage-linked canalers kept together by
      grunting, slow-moving tows; the great floating track-yards bearing
      ponderous cars&mdash;eight days from the Pacific without break of bulk;
      the skinny, far-reaching fingers of innumerable docks clutching prey of
      barge, steamer, and ship; the stately ocean-liner moving to sea,
      scattering water-bugs of boats, scows and barges as it glided on its way:&mdash;all
      this stirred his imagination and filled him with a strange resolve. He,
      too, would win a place among the masses&mdash;Ruth's hand fast in his.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      When Jack, in reply to Breen's note, stepped into his uncle's office, no
      one would have recognized in the quick, alert, bronze-faced young fellow
      the retiring, almost timid, boy who once peered out of the port-hole of
      the cashier's desk. Nor did Jack's eyes fall on any human being he had
      ever seen before. New occupants filled the chairs about the ticker. A few
      lucky ones&mdash;very few&mdash;had pulled out and stayed out, and could
      now be found at their country seats in various parts of the State, or on
      the Riviera, or in Egypt; but by far the larger part had crawled out of
      the fight to nurse their wounds within the privacy of their own homes
      where the outward show had to be kept up no matter how stringent the
      inside economies, or how severe the privations. Others, less fortunate,
      had disappeared altogether from their accustomed haunts and were to be
      found filling minor positions in some far Western frontier town or camp,
      or menial berths on a railroad, while at least one victim, too cowardly to
      leave the field, had haunted the lunch counters, hotel lobbies, and
      race-tracks for months, preying on friends and acquaintances alike until
      dire poverty forced him into crime, and a stone cell and a steel grille
      had ended the struggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Failing to find any face he recognized, Jack approached a group around the
      ticker, and inquired for the head of the firm. The answer came from a
      red-cheeked, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, immaculately upholstered
      gentleman&mdash;(silk scarf, diamond horse-shoe stick-pin, high collar,
      cut-away coat, speckled-trout waistcoat&mdash;everything perfect)&mdash;who
      stood, paring his nails in front of the plate-glass window overlooking the
      street, and who conveyed news of the elder Breen's whereabouts by a bob of
      his head and a jerk of his fat forefinger in the direction of the familiar
      glass door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen sat at his desk when Jack entered, but it was only when he spoke
      that his uncle looked up;&mdash;so many men swung back that door with
      favors to ask, that spontaneous affability was often bad policy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I received your letter, Uncle Arthur,&rdquo; Jack began.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen raised his eyes, and a deep color suffused his face. In his heart he
      had a sneaking admiration for the boy. He liked his pluck. Strange, too,
      he liked him the better for having left him and striking out for himself,
      and stranger still, he was a little ashamed for having brought about the
      revolt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jack!&rdquo; He was on his feet now, his hand extended, something of his
      old-time cordiality in his manner. &ldquo;You got my letter, did you? Well, I
      wanted to talk to you about that ore property. You own it still, don't
      you?&rdquo; The habit of his life of going straight at the business in hand,
      precluded every other topic. Then again he wanted a chance to look the boy
      over under fire,&mdash;&ldquo;size him up,&rdquo; in his own vocabulary. He might need
      his help later on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we don't own a foot of it,&mdash;don't want to. If Mr. MacFarlane
      decides to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not talking about MacFarlane's job; I'm talking about your own
      property,&mdash;the Cumberland ore property,&mdash;the one your father
      left you. You haven't sold it, have you?&rdquo; This came in an anxious tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Jack simply, wondering what his father's legacy had to do
      with his Chief's proposed work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you paid the taxes?&rdquo; Arthur's eyes were now boring into his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, every year; they were not much. Why do you ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you that later on,&rdquo; answered his uncle with a more satisfied
      air. &ldquo;You were up there with MacFarlane, weren't you?&mdash;when he went
      to look over the ground of the Maryland Mining Company where he is to cut
      the horizontal shaft?&rdquo; Jack nodded. &ldquo;So I heard. Well, it may interest you
      to learn that some of our Mukton people own the property. It was I who
      sent MacFarlane up, really, although he may not know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was very kind of you, sir,&rdquo; rejoined Jack, without a trace of either
      gratitude or surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm glad you think so. Some of our directors also own a block of
      that new road MacFarlane is finishing. They wouldn't hire anybody else
      after they had gone up to Corklesville and had seen how he did his work,
      so I had the secretary of the company write MacFarlane, and that's how it
      came about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack nodded and waited; his uncle's drift was not yet apparent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what I wanted to see you about, Jack, is this:&rdquo; here he settled his
      fat back into the chair. &ldquo;All the ore in that section of the county,&mdash;so
      our experts say, dips to the east. They've located the vein and they think
      a horizontal shaft and gravity will get the stuff to tide water much
      cheaper than a vertical shaft and hoist. Now if the ore should peter out&mdash;and
      the devil himself can't tell always about that&mdash;we've got to get some
      ore somewhere round there to brace up and make good our prospectus, even
      if it does cost a little more, and that's where your Cumberland property
      might come in,&mdash;see? One of our lawyers looked over a record of your
      deed in the town hall of Mulford&mdash;&rdquo; here he bent forward and
      consulted a paper on his desk&mdash;&ldquo;No,&mdash;that's not it,&mdash;Morfordsburg,&mdash;yes,
      that's it,&mdash;Morfordsburg,&mdash;looked up the deed, I say, Jack, and
      from what he says I don't believe your property is more than a quarter of
      a mile, as the crow flies, from where they want MacFarlane to begin
      cutting. If the lawyer's right there may be a few dollars in it for you&mdash;not
      much, but something; and if there is,&mdash;of course, I don't want to
      commit myself, and I don't want to encourage you too much&mdash;but if
      he's right I should advise your bringing me what papers you've got and
      have our attorney look them over, and if everything's O.K. in the title,
      your property might be turned over to the new company and form part of the
      deal. You can understand, of course, that we don't want any other deposits
      in that section but our own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen's meaning was clear now. So was the purpose of the letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack leaned back in his chair, an expression first of triumph and then of
      disgust crossing his face. That his uncle should actually want him back in
      his business in any capacity was as complimentary as it was unexpected.
      That the basis of the copartnership&mdash;and it was this that brought the
      curl to his lip&mdash;was such that neither a quarter of a mile nor two
      miles would stand in the way of a connecting vein of ore on paper, was to
      be expected by any one at all familiar with his uncle's methods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Uncle Arthur,&rdquo; he answered simply, &ldquo;but there's nothing
      decided yet about the Morfordsburg work. I heard a bit of news coming down
      on the train this morning that may cause Mr. MacFarlane to look upon the
      proposed work more favorably, but that is for him to say. As to my own
      property, when I am there again, if I do go,&mdash;I will look over the
      ground myself and have Mr. MacFarlane go with me and then I can decide.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen knitted his brows. It was not the answer he had expected. In fact,
      he was very much astonished both at the reply and the way in which it was
      given. He began to be sorry he had raised the question at all. He would
      gladly have helped Jack in getting a good price for his property, provided
      it did not interfere with his own plans, but to educate him up to the
      position of an obstructionist, was quite another matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, think it over,&rdquo; he replied in a tone that was meant to show his
      entire indifference to the whole affair,&mdash;&ldquo;and some time when you are
      in town drop in again. And now tell me about Ruth, as we must call her, I
      suppose. Your aunt just missed her at the Cosgroves' the other day.&rdquo; Then
      came a short disquisition on Garry and Corinne and their life at Elm
      Crest, followed by an embarrassing pause, during which the head of the
      house of Breen lowered the flow line on a black bottle which he took from
      a closet behind his desk,&mdash;&ldquo;his digestion being a little out that
      morning,&rdquo; he explained. And so with renewed thanks for the interest he had
      taken in his behalf, and with his whole mind now concentrated on Peter and
      the unspeakable happiness in store for him when he poured into the old
      gentleman's willing and astonished ears the details of the interview, Mr.
      John Breen, Henry MacFarlane's Chief Assistant in Charge of Outside Work,
      bowed himself out.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not long to wait.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, that delightful old gentleman had but a short time before called
      to a second old gentleman, a more or less delightful fossil in black wig
      and spectacles, to take his place at the teller's window, and the first
      delightful old gentleman was at the precise moment standing on the top
      step of the Exeter, overlooking the street, where he had caught sight of
      Jack wending his way toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack! JACK!&rdquo; Peter cried, waving his hand at the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! that's you, Uncle Peter, is it? Shall I&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jack, stay where you are until I come to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where are you going now?&rdquo; burst out Jack, overjoyed at reaching his
      side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To luncheon, my dear boy! We'll go to Favre's, and have a stuffed pepper
      and a plate of spaghetti an inch deep, after my own receipt. Botti cooks
      it deliciously;&mdash;and a bottle of red wine, my boy,&mdash;WINE,&mdash;not
      logwood and vinegar. No standing up at a trough, or sitting on a high
      stool, or wandering about with a sandwich between your fingers,&mdash;ruining
      your table manners and your digestion. And now tell me about dear Ruth,
      and what she says about coming down to dinner next week?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and how spry
      his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on to the cheap
      little French restaurant with its sanded floor, little tables for two and
      four, with their tiny pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar,&mdash;this
      last, the &ldquo;left-overs&rdquo; of countless bottles of Bordeaux,&mdash;to say
      nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside
      the proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same color,
      length, and thickness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table&mdash;his for
      years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the doleful
      little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging baskets&mdash;Peter
      had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed (some of the younger men
      rose to their feet to shake his hand)&mdash;until he reached the
      proprietor and gave his order.
    </p>
    <p>
      Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out his chair (it
      was always tipped back in reserve until he arrived), laid another plate
      and accessories for his guest, and then bent his head in attention until
      Peter indicated the particular brand of Bordeaux&mdash;the color of the
      wax sealing its top was the only label&mdash;with which he proposed to
      entertain his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting. Once he had slipped
      his hand into his pocket for Breen's letter, in the belief that the best
      way to get the most enjoyment out of the incident of his visit and the
      result,&mdash;for it was still a joke to Jack,&mdash;would be to lay the
      half sheet on Peter's plate and watch the old fellow's face as he read it.
      Then he decided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of
      the story&mdash;the prospectus and how it was to be braced&mdash;until the
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the boy could not wait; so, after he had told Peter about Ruth,&mdash;and
      that took ten minutes, try as hard as he could to shorten the telling,&mdash;during
      which the stuffed peppers were in evidence,&mdash;and after Peter had
      replied with certain messages to Ruth,&mdash;during which the spaghetti
      was served sizzling hot, with entrancing frazzlings of brown cheese
      clinging to the edges of the tin plate&mdash;the Chief Assistant squared
      his elbows and plunged head-foremost into the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, I have got a surprise for you, Uncle Peter,&rdquo; cried Jack,
      smothering his eagerness as best he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old fellow held up his hand, reached for the shabby, dust-begrimed
      bottle, that had been sound asleep under the sidewalk for years; filled
      Jack's glass, then his own; settled himself in his chair and said with a
      dry smile:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it's something startling, Jack, wait until we drink this,&rdquo; and he
      lifted the slender rim to his lips. &ldquo;If it's something delightful, you can
      spring it now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is both,&rdquo; answered Jack. &ldquo;Listen and doubt your ears. I had a letter
      from Uncle Arthur this morning asking me to come and see him about my
      Cumberland ore property, and I have just spent an hour with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter put down his glass:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had a letter from Arthur Breen&mdash;about&mdash;what do you mean,
      Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just what I say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter moved close to the table, and looked at the boy in wonderment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what did he want?&rdquo; He was all attention now. Arthur Breen sending
      for Jack!&mdash;and after all that had happened! Well&mdash;well!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wants me to put the Cumberland ore property father left me into one of
      his companies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That fox!&rdquo; The explosion cleared the atmosphere for an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That fox!&rdquo; answered Jack, in a confirmatory tone; and then followed an
      account of the interview, the boy chuckling at the end of every sentence
      in his delight over the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what are YOU going to do?&rdquo; asked Peter in an undecided tone. He had
      heard nothing so comical as this for years.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going to do nothing,&mdash;that is, nothing with Uncle Arthur. In the
      first place, the property is worthless, unless half a million of money is
      spent upon it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or is SAID to have been spent upon it,&rdquo; rejoined Peter with a smile,
      remembering the Breen methods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly so;&mdash;and in the second place, I would rather tear up the
      deed than have it added to Uncle Arthur's stock of balloons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter drummed on the table-cloth and looked out of the window. The boy was
      right in principle, but then the property might not be a balloon at all;
      might in fact be worth a great deal more than the boy dreamed of. That
      Arthur Breen had gone out of his way to send for Jack&mdash;knowing, as
      Peter did, how systematically both he and his wife had abused and
      ridiculed him whenever his name was mentioned&mdash;was positive evidence
      to Peter's mind not only that the property had a value of some kind but
      that the discovery was of recent origin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,&mdash;that
      is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?&rdquo; asked Peter,
      lifting his glass to his lips. He was getting back to his normal condition
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help me out.
      He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five years. He received
      his early training there,&mdash;but there is no use talking about it,
      Uncle Peter. I only told you to let you see how the same old thing is
      going on day after day at Uncle Arthur's. If it isn't Mukton, it's
      Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas bag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you tell him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&mdash;not in all the hour I talked with him. He did the talking;
      I did the listening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was,&mdash;particularly so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants your property, does he?&rdquo; ruminated Peter, rolling a crumb of
      bread between his thumb and forefinger. &ldquo;I wonder what's up? He has made
      some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors about the house for a
      time. He has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I've lost sight
      of all of his transactions.&rdquo; Here a new idea seemed to strike him: &ldquo;Did he
      seem very anxious about getting hold of the land?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A queer smile played about Jack's lips:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He seemed NOT to be, but he was&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well as I do. I have
      heard him talk that way to dozens of men and then brag how he'd 'covered
      his tracks,' as he used to call it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Jack,&rdquo; exclaimed Peter in a decided tone, &ldquo;there is something in
      it. What it is you will find out before many weeks, but something. I will
      wager you he has not only had your title searched but has had test holes
      driven all over your land. These fellows stop at nothing. Let him alone
      for a while and keep him guessing. When he writes to you again to come and
      see him, answer that you are too busy, and if he adds a word about the ore
      beds tell him you have withdrawn them from the market. In the meantime I
      will have a talk with one of our directors who has an interest, so he told
      me, in a new steel company up in the Cumberland Mountains, somewhere near
      your property, I believe. He may know something of what's going on, if
      anything is going on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's eyes blazed. Something going on! Suppose that after all he and Ruth
      would not have to wait. Peter read his thoughts and laid his hand on
      Jack's wrist:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your toes on the earth, my boy:&mdash;no balloon ascensions and no
      bubbles,&mdash;none of your own blowing. They are bad things to have burst
      in your hands&mdash;four hands now, remember, with Ruth's. If there's any
      money in your Cumberland ore bank, it will come to light without your
      help. Keep still and say nothing, and don't you sign your name to a piece
      of paper as big as a postage stamp until you let me see it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Peter looked at his watch and rose from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Time's up, my boy. I never allow myself but an hour at luncheon, and I am
      due at the bank in ten minutes. Thank you, Auguste,&mdash;and Auguste!
      please tell Botti the spaghetti was delicious. Come, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was when he held Ruth in his arms that same afternoon&mdash;behind the
      door, really,&mdash;she couldn't wait until they reached the room,&mdash;that
      Jack whispered in her astonished and delighted ears the good news of the
      expected check from Garry's committee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And daddy won't lose anything; and he can take the new work!&rdquo; she cried
      joyously. &ldquo;And we can all go up to the mountains together! Oh, Jack!&mdash;let
      me run and tell daddy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my darling,&mdash;not a word, Garry had no business to tell me what
      he did; and it might leak out and get him into trouble:&mdash;No, don't
      say a word. It is only a few days off. We shall all know next week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had led her to the sofa, their favorite seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now I am going to tell you something that would be a million times
      better than Garry's check if it were only true,&mdash;but it isn't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, Jack,&mdash;quick!&rdquo; Her lips were close to his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle Arthur wants to buy my ore lands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buy your&mdash;And we are going to be&mdash;married right away! Oh, you
      darling Jack!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait,&mdash;wait, my precious, until I tell you!&rdquo; She did not wait, and
      he did not want her to. Only when he could loosen her arms from his neck
      did he find her ear again, then he poured into it the rest of the story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, oh, Jack!&mdash;wouldn't it be lovely if it were true,&mdash;and
      just think of all the things we could do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;but it Isn't true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But just suppose it WAS, Jack! You would have a horse of your own and
      we'd build the dearest little home and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it never can be true, blessed,&mdash;not out of the Cumberland
      property&mdash;&rdquo; protested Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Jack! Can't we SUPPOSE? Why, supposing is the best fun in the world.
      I used to suppose all sorts of things when I was a little girl. Some of
      them came true, and some of them didn't, but I had just as much fun as if
      they HAD all come true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever suppose ME?&rdquo; asked Jack. He knew she never had,&mdash;he
      wasn't worth it;&mdash;but what difference did it make what they talked
      about!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;a thousand times. I always knew, my blessed, that there was
      somebody like you in the world somewhere,&mdash;and when the girls would
      break out and say ugly things of men,&mdash;all men,&mdash;I just knew
      they were not true of everybody. I knew that you would come&mdash;and that
      I should always look for you until I found you! And now tell me! Did you
      suppose about me, too, you darling Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;never. There couldn't be any supposing;&mdash;there isn't any
      now. It's just you I love, Ruth,&mdash;you,&mdash;and I love the 'YOU' in
      you&mdash;That's the best part of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so they talked on, she close in his arms, their cheeks together;
      building castles of rose marble and ivory, laying out gardens with vistas
      ending in summer sunsets; dreaming dreams that lovers only dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      The check &ldquo;struck&rdquo; MacFarlane just as the chairman had said it would,
      wiping out his losses by the flood with something ahead for his next
      undertaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the verdict was a just one was apparent from the reports of both
      McGowan's and the Railroad Company's experts. These showed that the
      McGowan mortar held but little cement, and that not of the best; that the
      backing of the masonry was composed of loose rubble instead of split
      stone, and that the collapse of his structure was not caused by the
      downpour, but by the caving in of culverts and spillways, which were built
      of materials in direct violation of the provisions of the contract. Even
      then there might have been some doubt as to the outcome but for Holker
      Morris's testimony. He not only sent in his report, but appeared himself,
      he told the Council, so as to answer any questions Mr. McGowan or his
      friends might ask. He had done this, as he said openly at the meeting, to
      aid his personal friend, Mr. MacFarlane, and also that he might raise his
      voice against the slipshod work that was being done by men who either did
      not know their business or purposely evaded their responsibilities. &ldquo;This
      construction of McGowan's,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;is especially to be condemned,
      as there is not the slightest doubt that the contractor has intentionally
      slighted his work&mdash;a neglect which, but for the thorough manner in
      which MacFarlane had constructed the lower culvert, might have resulted in
      the loss of many lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      McGowan snarled and sputtered, denouncing Garry and his &ldquo;swallow-tails&rdquo; in
      the bar rooms and at the board meetings, but the decision was unanimous,
      two of his friends concurring, fearing, as they explained afterward, that
      the &ldquo;New York crowd&rdquo; might claim even a larger sum in a suit for damages.
    </p>
    <p>
      The meeting over, Morris and Jack dined with MacFarlane and again the
      distinguished architect won Ruth's heart by the charm of his personality,
      she telling Jack the next day that he was the only OLD MAN&mdash;fifty was
      old for Ruth&mdash;she had ever seen with whom she could have fallen in
      love, and that she was not sure after all but that Jack was too young for
      her, at which there was a great scrimmage and a blind-man's-buff chase
      around the table, up the front stairs and into the corner by the window,
      where she was finally caught, smothered in kisses and made to correct her
      arithmetic.
    </p>
    <p>
      This ghost of damages having been laid&mdash;it was buried the week after
      Jack had called on his uncle&mdash;the Chief, the First Assistant, and
      Bangs, the head foreman, disappeared from Corklesville and reappeared at
      Morfordsburg.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chief came to select a site for the entrance of the shaft; the First
      Assistant came to compare certain maps and documents, which he had taken
      from the trunk he had brought with him from his Maryland home, with the
      archives resting in the queer old courthouse; while Foreman Bangs was to
      help with the level and target, should a survey be found necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      The faded-out old town clerk looked Jack all over when he asked to see the
      duplicate of a certain deed, remarking, as he led the way to the Hall of
      Records,&mdash;it was under a table in the back room,&mdash;&ldquo;Reckon
      there's somethin' goin' on jedgin' from the way you New Yorkers is lookin'
      into ore lands up here. There come a lawyer only last month from a man
      named Breen, huntin' up this same property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The comparisons over and found to be correct, &ldquo;starting from a certain
      stone marked 'B' one hundred and eighty-seven feet East by South,&rdquo; etc.,
      etc., the whole party, including a small boy to help carry the level and
      target and a reliable citizen who said he could find the property
      blindfold&mdash;and who finally collapsed with a &ldquo;Goll darn!&mdash;if I
      know where I'm at!&rdquo;&mdash;the five jumped onto a mud-encrusted vehicle and
      started for the site.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up hill and down hill, across one stream and then another; through the
      dense timber and into the open again. Here their work began, Jack handling
      the level (his Chief had taught him), Bangs holding the target, MacFarlane
      taking a squint now and then so as to be sure,&mdash;and then the final
      result,&mdash;to wit:&mdash;First, that the Maryland Company's property,
      Arthur Breen &amp; Co., agents, lay under a hill some two miles from
      Morfordsburg; that Jack's lay some miles to the south of Breen's. Second,
      that outcroppings showed the Maryland Mining Company's ore dipped, as the
      Senior Breen had said, to the east, and third, that similar outcroppings
      showed Jack's dipped to the west.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the airy bubble filled with his own and Ruth's iridescent hopes,&mdash;a
      bubble which had floated before him as he tramped through the cool woods,
      and out upon the hillside, vanished into thin air.
    </p>
    <p>
      For with Ruth's arms around him, her lips close to his, her boundless
      enthusiasm filling his soul, the boy's emotions had for the time overcome
      his judgment. So much so that all the way up in the train he had been
      &ldquo;supposing&rdquo; and resupposing. Even the reply of the town clerk had set his
      heart to thumping; his uncle had sent some one then! Then came the
      thought,&mdash;Yes, to boom one of his misleading prospectuses&mdash;and
      for a time the pounding had ceased: by no possible combination now, either
      honest or dishonest, could the two properties be considered one and the
      same mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again his thoughts went back to Ruth. He knew how keenly she would be
      disappointed. She had made him promise to telegraph her at once if his own
      and her father's inspection of the ore lands should hold out any
      rose-colored prospects for the future. This he had not now the heart to
      do. One thing, however, he must do, and at once, and that was to write to
      Peter, or see him immediately on his return. There was no use now of the
      old fellow talking the matter over with the director; there was nothing to
      talk over, except a bare hill three miles from anywhere, covering a
      possible deposit of doubtful richness and which, whether good or bad,
      would cost more to get to market than it was worth.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were on the extreme edge of the forest when the final decision was
      reached, MacFarlane leaning against a rock, the level and tripod tilted
      against his arm, Jack sitting on a fallen tree, the map spread out on his
      knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some minutes Jack sat silent, his eyes roaming over the landscape.
      Below him stretched an undulating mantle of velvet, laid loosely over
      valley, ravine and hill, embroidered in tints of corn-yellow, purplings of
      full-blossomed clover and the softer greens of meadow and swamp. In and
      out, now straight, now in curves and bows, was threaded a ribbon of
      silver, with here and there a connecting mirror in which flashed the sun.
      Bordering its furthermost edge a chain of mountains lost themselves in
      low, rolling clouds, while here and there, in its many crumplings, were
      studded jewels of barn stack and house, their facets aflame in the morning
      light.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack absorbed it all, its beauty filling his soul, the sunshine bathing
      his cheeks. Soon all trace of his disappointment vanished: with Ruth here,&mdash;with
      his work to occupy him,&mdash;and this mighty, all-inspiring,
      all-intoxicating sweep of loveliness spread out, his own and Ruth's every
      hour of the day and night, what did ore beds or anything else matter?
    </p>
    <p>
      MacFarlane's voice woke him to consciousness. He had called to him before,
      but the boy had not heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I have just remarked, Jack,&rdquo; MacFarlane began again, &ldquo;there is nothing
      but an earthquake will make your property of any use. It is a low-grade
      ore, I should say, and tunnelling and shoring would eat it up. Wipe it off
      the books. There are thousands of acres of this kind of land lying around
      loose from here to the Cumberland Valley. It may get better as you go down&mdash;only
      an assay can tell about that&mdash;but I don't think it will. To begin
      sinking shafts might mean sinking one or a dozen; and there's nothing so
      expensive. I am sorry, Jack, but wipe it out. Some bright scoundrel might
      sell stock on it, but they'll never melt any of it up into stove plate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, sir,&rdquo; Jack said at last, with a light laugh. &ldquo;It is the same
      old piece of bread, I reckon, and it has fallen on the same old buttered
      side. Uncle Peter told me to beware of bubbles&mdash;said they were hard
      to carry around. This one has burst before I got my hand on it. All right&mdash;let
      her go! I hope Ruth won't take it too much to heart. Here, boy, get hold
      of this map and put it with the other traps in the wagon. And now, Mr.
      MacFarlane, what comes next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before the day was over MacFarlane had perfected his plans. The town was
      to be avoided as too demoralizing a shelter for the men, and barracks were
      to be erected in which to house them. Locations of the principal derricks
      were selected and staked, as well as the sites for the entrance to the
      shaft, for the machine and blacksmith's shops and for a storage shanty for
      tools: the Maryland Mining Company's work would require at least two years
      to complete, and a rational, well-studied plan of procedure was
      imperative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, Jack, where are you going to live,&mdash;in the village?&rdquo; asked
      his Chief, resting the level and tripod carefully against a tree trunk and
      seating himself beside Jack on a fallen log.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out here, if you don't mind, sir, where I can be on top of the work all
      the time. It's but a short ride for Ruth and she can come and go all the
      time. I am going to drop some of these trees; get two or three choppers
      from the village and knock up a log-house like the one I camped in when I
      was a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will you put it?&rdquo; asked MacFarlane with a smile, as he turned his
      head as if in search of a site. It was just where he wanted Jack to live,
      but he would not have suggested it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a hundred yards from where we sit, sir&mdash;a little back of those
      two big oaks. There's a spring above on the hill and sloping ground for
      drainage; and shade, and a great sweep of country in front. I've been
      hungry for this life ever since I left home; now I am going to have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be rather lonely, won't it?&rdquo; The engineer's eyes softened as they
      rested on the young fellow, his face flushed with the enthusiasm of his
      new resolve. He and Ruth's mother had lived in just such a shanty, and not
      so very long ago, either, it seemed,&mdash;those were the happiest years
      of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; exclaimed Jack. &ldquo;It's only a step to the town; I can walk it in half
      an hour. No, it won't be lonely. I will fix up a room for Uncle Peter
      somewhere, so he can be comfortable,&mdash;he would love to come here on
      his holidays; and Ruth can come out for the day,&mdash;she will be crazy
      about it when I tell her. No, I will get along. If the lightning had
      struck my ore beds I would probably have painted and papered some musty
      back room in the village and lived a respectable life. Now I am going to
      turn savage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day the contracts were signed: work to commence in three months.
      Henry MacFarlane, Engineer-in-Chief, John Breen in charge of construction.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on that same sofa in the far corner of the sitting-room that Jack
      told Ruth,&mdash;gently, one word at a time,&mdash;making the best of it,
      but telling her the exact truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then we are not going to have any of the things we dreamed about,
      Jack,&rdquo; she said with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid not, my darling,&mdash;not now, unless the lightning strikes
      us, which it won't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked out of the window for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears.
      Then she thought of her father, and how hard he had worked, and what
      disappointments he had suffered, and yet how, with all his troubles, he
      had always put his best foot foremost&mdash;always encouraging her. She
      would not let Jack see her chagrin. This was part of Jack's life, just as
      similar disappointments had been part of her father's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, blessed. Well, we had lots of fun 'supposing,' didn't we,
      Jack. This one didn't come true, but some of the others will and what
      difference does it make, anyway, as long as I have you,&rdquo; and she nestled
      her face in his neck. &ldquo;And now tell me what sort of a place it is and
      where daddy and I are going to live, and all about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then, to soften the disappointment the more and to keep a new bubble
      afloat, Jack launched out into a description of the country and how
      beautiful the view was from the edge of the hill overlooking the valley,
      with the big oaks crowning the top and the lichen-covered rocks and fallen
      timber blanketed with green moss, and the spring of water that gushed out
      of the ground and ran laughing down the hillside, and the sweep of
      mountains losing themselves in the blue haze of the distance, and then
      finally to the log-cabin he was going to build for his own especial use.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And only two miles away,&rdquo; she cried in a joyous tone,&mdash;&ldquo;and I can
      ride out every day! Oh, Jack!&mdash;just think of it!&rdquo; And so, with the
      breath of this new enthusiasm filling their souls, a new bubble of hope
      and gladness was floated, and again the two fell to planning, and
      &ldquo;supposing,&rdquo; the rose-glow once more lightening up the peaks.
    </p>
    <p>
      For days nothing else was talked of. An onslaught was at once made on
      Garry's office, two doors below Mrs. Hicks, for photographs, plans of
      bungalows, shanties, White Mountain lean-tos, and the like, and as quickly
      tucked under Ruth's arm and carried off, with only the permission of the
      office boy,&mdash;Garry himself being absent owing to some matters
      connected with a big warehouse company in which he was interested, the boy
      said, and which took him to New York on the early train and did not allow
      his return sometimes, until after midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      These plans were spread out under the lamp on the sitting-room table, the
      two studying the details, their heads together, MacFarlane sitting beside
      them reading or listening,&mdash;the light of the lamp falling on his
      earnest, thoughtful face,&mdash;Jack consulting him now and then as to the
      advisability of further extensions, the same being two rooms shingled
      inside and out, with an annex of bark and plank for Ruth's horse, and a
      kitchen and laundry and no end of comforts, big and little,&mdash;all to
      be occupied whenever their lucky day would come and the merry bells ring
      out the joyful tidings of their marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was this all this particularly radiant bubble contained. Not only was
      there to be a big open fireplace built of stone, and overhead rafters of
      birch, the bark left on and still glistening,&mdash;but there were to be
      palms, ferns, hanging baskets, chintz curtains, rugs, pots of flowers,
      Chinese lanterns, hammocks, easy chairs; and for all Jack knew, porcelain
      tubs, electric bells, steam heat and hot and cold water, so enthusiastic
      had Ruth become over the possibilities lurking in the 15 X 20 log-hut
      which Jack proposed to throw together as a shelter in his exile.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      The news of MacFarlane's expected departure soon became known in the
      village. There were not many people to say good-by, the inhabitants having
      seen but little of the engineer and still less of his daughter, except as
      she flew past, in a mad gallop, on her brown mare, her hair sometimes down
      her back. The pastor of the new church came, however, to express his
      regrets, and to thank Mr. MacFarlane for his interest in the church
      building. He also took occasion to say many complimentary things about
      Garry, extolling him for the wonderful manner in which that brilliant
      young architect had kept within the sum set apart by the trustees for its
      construction, and for the skill with which the work was being done, adding
      that as a slight reward for such devotion the church trustees had made Mr.
      Minott treasurer of the building fund, believing that in this way all
      disputes could the better be avoided,&mdash;one of some importance having
      already arisen (here the reverend gentleman lowered his voice) in which
      Mr. McGowan, he was sorry to say, who was building the masonry, had
      attempted an overcharge which only Mr. Minott's watchful eye could have
      detected, adding, with a glance over his shoulder, that the collapse of
      the embankment had undermined the contractor's reputation quite as much as
      the freshet had his culvert, at which MacFarlane smiled but made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne also came to express her regrets, bringing with her a scrap of an
      infant in a teetering baby carriage, the whole presided over by a nurse in
      a blue dress, white cap, and white apron, the ends reaching to her feet:
      not the Corinne, the Scribe is pained to say, who, in the old days would
      twist her head and stamp her little feet and have her way in everything.
      But a woman terribly shrunken, with deep lines in her face and under her
      eyes. Jack, man-like, did not notice the change, but Ruth did.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the baby had been duly admired, Ruth tossing it in her arms until it
      crowed, Corinne being too tired for much enthusiasm, had sent it home,
      Ruth escorting it herself to the garden gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry you are going,&rdquo; Corinne said in Ruth's absence. &ldquo;I suppose we
      must stay on here until Garry finishes the new church. I haven't seen much
      of Ruth,&mdash;or of you, either, Jack. But I don't see much of anybody
      now,&mdash;not even of Garry. He never gets home until midnight, or even
      later, if the train is behind time, and it generally is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he must have lots of new work,&rdquo; cried Jack in a cheerful tone. &ldquo;He
      told me the last time I saw him on the train that he expected some big
      warehouse job.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Corinne looked out of the window and fingered the handle of her parasol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe that is what keeps him in town, Jack,&rdquo; she said slowly.
      &ldquo;I hoped you would come and see him last Sunday. Did Garry give you my
      message? I heard you were at home to-day, and that is why I came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he never said a single word about it or I would have come, of course.
      What do you think, then, keeps him in town so late?&rdquo; Something in her
      voice made Jack leave his own and take a seat beside her. &ldquo;Tell me,
      Corinne. I'll do anything I can for Garry and you too. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know, Jack,&mdash;I wish I did. He has changed lately. When I
      went to his room the other night he was walking the floor; he said he
      couldn't sleep, and the next morning when he didn't come down to breakfast
      I went up and found him in a half stupor. I had hard work to wake him.
      Don't tell Ruth,&mdash;I don't want anybody but you to know, but I wish
      you'd come and see him. I've nobody else to turn to,&mdash;won't you,
      Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come! of course I'll come, Corinne,&mdash;now,&mdash;this minute, if he's
      home, or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and
      wait. Garry's working too hard, that's it,&mdash;he was always that way,
      puts his whole soul into anything he gets interested in and never lets up
      until it's accomplished.&rdquo; He waited for some reply, but she was still
      toying with the handle of her parasol. Her mind had not been on his
      proffered help,&mdash;she had not heard him, in fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Jack,&rdquo; she went on in the same heart-broken tone through which an
      unbidden sob seemed to struggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am listening, Corinne,&mdash;what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to forgive me for the way I have always treated you. I have&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Corinne, what nonsense! Don't you bother your head about such&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but I do, and it is because I have never done anything but be ugly
      to you. When you lived with us I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we were children then, Corinne, and neither of us knew any better. I
      won't hear one word of such nonsense. Why, my dear girl&mdash;&ldquo;he had
      taken her hand as she spoke and the pair rested on his knee&mdash;&ldquo;do you
      think I am&mdash;No&mdash;you are too sensible a woman to think anything
      of the kind. But that is not it, Corinne&mdash;something worries you;&rdquo; he
      asked suddenly with a quick glance at her face. &ldquo;What is it? You shall
      have the best in me, and Ruth will help too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her fingers closed over his. The touch of the young fellow, so full of
      buoyant strength and hope and happiness, seemed to put new life into her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know, Jack.&rdquo; Her voice fell to a whisper. &ldquo;There may not be
      anything, yet I live under an awful terror. Don't ask me;&mdash;only tell
      me you will help me if I need you. I have nobody else&mdash;my stepfather
      almost turned me out of his office when I went to see him the other day,&mdash;my
      mother doesn't care. She has only been here half a dozen times, and that
      was when baby was born. Hush,&mdash;here comes Ruth,&mdash;she must not
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she MUST know, Corinne. I never have any secrets from Ruth, and don't
      you have any either. Ruth couldn't be anything but kind to you and she
      never misunderstands, and she is so helpful. Here she is. Ruth, dear, we
      were just waiting for you. Corinne is nervous and depressed, and imagines
      all sorts of things, one of which is that we don't care for her: and I've
      just told her that we do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth looked into Jack's eyes as if to get his meaning&mdash;she must
      always get her cue from him now&mdash;she was entirely unconscious of the
      cause of it all, or why Corinne should feel so, but if Jack thought
      Corinne was suffering and that she wanted comforting, all she had was at
      Corinne's and Jack's disposal. With a quick movement she leaned forward
      and laid her hand on Corinne's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you dear Corinne,&mdash;Jack and I are not like that. What has gone
      wrong,&mdash;tell me,&rdquo; she urged.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a brief instant Corinne made no answer. Once she tried to speak but
      the words died in her throat. Then, lifting up her hands appealingly, she
      faltered out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only said that I&mdash;Oh, Ruth!&mdash;I am so wretched!&rdquo; and sank back
      on the lounge in an agony of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      At ten o'clock that same night Jack went to the station to meet Garry. He
      and Ruth had talked over the strange scene&mdash;unaccountable to both of
      them&mdash;and had determined that Jack should see Garry at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must help him, Ruth, no matter at what cost. Garry has been my friend
      for years; he has been taken up with his work, and so have I, and we have
      drifted apart a little, but I shall never forget him for his kindness to
      me when I first came to New York. I would never have known Uncle Peter but
      for Garry, or Aunt Felicia, or&mdash;you, my darling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited under the shelter of the overhanging roof until the young
      architect stepped from the car and crossed the track. Garry walked with
      the sluggish movement of a tired man&mdash;hardly able to drag his feet
      after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I'd come down to meet you, Garry,&rdquo; Jack cried in his old
      buoyant tone. &ldquo;It's pretty rough on you, old fellow, working so hard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry raised his head and peered into the speaker's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jack!&rdquo; he exclaimed in a surprised tone; the voice did not sound
      like Garry's. &ldquo;I didn't see you in the train. Have you been in New York
      too?&rdquo; He evidently understood nothing of Jack's explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I came down to meet you. Corinne was at Mr. MacFarlane's to-day, and
      said you were not well,&mdash;and so I thought I'd walk home with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, old man, but I'm all right. Corinne's nervous;&mdash;you
      mustn't mind her. I've been up against it for two or three weeks now,&mdash;lot
      of work of all kinds, and that's kept me a good deal from home. I don't
      wonder Cory's worried, but I can't help it&mdash;not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had reached an overhead light, and Jack caught a clearer view of the
      man. What he saw sent a shiver through him. A great change had come over
      his friend. His untidy dress,&mdash;always so neat and well kept; his
      haggard eyes and shambling, unsteady walk, so different from his springy,
      debonair manner, all showed that he had been and still was under some
      terrible mental strain. That he had not been drinking was evident from his
      utterance and gait. This last discovery when his condition was considered,
      disturbed him most of all, for he saw that Garry was going through some
      terrible crisis, either professional or financial.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the two advanced toward the door of the station on their way to the
      street, the big, burly form of McGowan, the contractor, loomed up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard you wouldn't be up till late, Mr. Minott,&rdquo; he exclaimed gruffly,
      blocking Garry's exit to the street. &ldquo;I couldn't find you at the Council
      or at your office, so I had to come here. We haven't had that last payment
      on the church. The vouchers is all ready for your signature, so the head
      trustee says,&mdash;and the money's where you can git at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry braced his shoulders and his jaw tightened. One secret of the young
      architect's professional success lay in his command over his men. Although
      he was considerate, and sometimes familiar, he never permitted any
      disrespect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes, Mr. McGowan, that's so,&rdquo; he answered stiffly. &ldquo;I've been in New
      York a good deal lately and I guess I've neglected things here. I'll try
      to come up in the morning, and if everything's all right I'll get a
      certificate and fill it up and you'll get a check in a few days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but you said that last week.&rdquo; There was a sound of defiance in
      McGowan's voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I did I had good reason for the delay,&rdquo; answered Garry with a flash of
      anger. &ldquo;I'm not running my office to suit you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor for anybody else who wants his money and who's got to have it, and I
      want to tell you, Mr. Minott, right here, and I don't care who hears it,
      that I want mine or I'll know the reason why.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry wheeled fiercely and raised his hand as if to strike the speaker,
      then it dropped to his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't blame you, Mr. McGowan,&rdquo; he said in a restrained, even voice. &ldquo;I
      have no doubt that it's due you and you ought to have it, but I've been
      pretty hard pressed lately with some matters in New York; so much so that
      I've been obliged to take the early morning train,&mdash;and you can see
      yourself what time I get home. Just give me a day or two longer and I'll
      examine the work and straighten it out. And then again, I'm not very
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The contractor glared into the speaker's face as if to continue the
      discussion, then his features relaxed. Something in the sound of Garry's
      voice, or perhaps some line of suffering in his face must have touched
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, of course, I ain't no hog,&rdquo; he exclaimed in a softer tone, which
      was meant as an apology, &ldquo;and if you're sick that ends it, but I've got
      all them men to pay and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I understand and I won't forget. Thank you, Mr. McGowan, and
      good-night. Come along, Jack,&mdash;Corinne's worrying, and will be till I
      get home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two kept silent as they walked up the hill Garry, because he was too
      tired to discuss the cowardly attack; Jack, because what he had to say
      must be said when they were alone,&mdash;when he could get hold of Garry's
      hand and make him open his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they approached the small house and mounted the steps leading to the
      front porch, Corinne's face could be seen pressed against a pane in one of
      the dining-room windows. Garry touched Jack's arm and pointed ahead:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Cory!&rdquo; he exclaimed with a deep sigh, &ldquo;that's the way she is every
      night. Coming home is sometimes the worst part of it all, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door flew open and Corinne sprang out: &ldquo;Are you tired, dear?&rdquo; she
      asked, peering into his face and kissing him. Then turning to Jack: &ldquo;Thank
      you, Jack!&mdash;It was so good of you to go. Ruth sent me word you had
      gone to meet him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She led the way into the house, relieving Garry of his hat, and moving up
      an easy chair stood beside it until he had settled himself into its
      depths.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again she bent over and kissed him: &ldquo;How are things to-day, dear?&mdash;any
      better?&rdquo; she inquired in a quavering voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some of them are better and some are worse, Cory; but there's nothing for
      you to worry about. That's what I've been telling Jack. How's baby?
      Anybody been here from the board?&mdash;Any letters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baby's all right,&rdquo; the words came slowly, as if all utterance gave her
      pain. &ldquo;No, there are no letters. Mr. McGowan was here, but I told him you
      wouldn't be home till late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I saw him,&rdquo; replied Garry, dropping his voice suddenly to a
      monotone, an expression of pain followed by a shade of anxiety settling on
      his face: McGowan and his affairs were evidently unpleasant subjects. At
      this instant the cry of a child was heard. Garry roused himself and turned
      his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen&mdash;that's baby crying! Better go to her, Cory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry waited until his wife had left the room, then he rose from, his
      chair, crossed to the sideboard, poured out three-quarters of a glass of
      raw whiskey and drank it without drawing a breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the first to-day, Jack. I dare not touch it when I'm on a strain
      like this. Can't think clearly, and I want my head,&mdash;all of it.
      There's a lot of sharks down in New York,&mdash;skin you alive if they
      could. I beg your pardon, old man,&mdash;have a drop?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack waved his hand in denial, his eyes still on his friend: &ldquo;Not now,
      Garry, thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry dropped the stopper into the decanter, pushed back the empty tumbler
      and began pacing the floor, halting now and then to toe some pattern in
      the carpet, talking all the time to himself in broken sentences, like one
      thinking aloud. All Jack's heart went out to his friend as he watched him.
      He and Ruth were so happy. All their future was so full of hope and
      promise, and Garry&mdash;brilliant, successful Garry,&mdash;the envy of
      all his associates, so harassed and so wretched!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry, sit down and listen to me,&rdquo; Jack said at last. &ldquo;I am your oldest
      friend; no one you know thinks any more of you than I do, or will be more
      ready to help. Now, what troubles you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, Jack, I'm not troubled!&rdquo;&mdash;something of the old bravado
      rang in his voice,&mdash;&ldquo;except as everybody is troubled when he's trying
      to straighten out something that won't straighten. I'm knocked out, that's
      all,&mdash;can't you see it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see it,&mdash;and that's not all I see. Is it your work here or in
      New York? I want to know, and I'm going to know, and I have a right to
      know, and you are not going to bed until you tell me,&mdash;nor will I. I
      can and will help you, and so will Mr. MacFarlane, and Uncle Peter, and
      everybody I ask. What's gone wrong?&mdash;Tell me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry continued to walk the floor. Then he wheeled suddenly and threw
      himself into his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Jack,&rdquo; he answered with an indrawn sigh,&mdash;&ldquo;if you must know,
      I'm on the wrong side of the market.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stocks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly. The bottom's fallen out of the Warehouse Company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's heart gave a rebound. After all, it was only a question of money
      and this could be straightened out. He had begun to fear that it might be
      something worse; what, he dared not conjecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have lost money?&rdquo; Jack continued in a less eager tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A whole lot of money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know, but a lot. It went up three points to-day and so I am
      hanging on by my eyelids.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's not the first time men have been in that position,&rdquo; Jack
      replied in a hopeful tone. &ldquo;Is there anything more,&mdash;something you
      are keeping back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;a good deal more. I'm afraid I'll have to let go. If I do I'm
      ruined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack kept silent for a moment. Various ways of raising money to help his
      friend passed in review, none of which at the moment seemed feasible or
      possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much will make your account good?&rdquo; he asked after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About ten thousand dollars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack leaned forward in his chair. &ldquo;Ten thousand dollars!&rdquo; he exclaimed in
      a startled tone. &ldquo;Why, Garry&mdash;how in the name of common-sense did you
      get in as deep as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I was a damned fool!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again there was silence, during which Garry fumbled for a match, opened
      his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he said slowly, as he tossed the
      burnt end of the match from him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said something, Jack, about some of your friends helping. Could Mr.
      MacFarlane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&mdash;he hasn't got it,&mdash;not to spare. I was thinking of another
      kind of help when I spoke. I supposed you had got into debt, or something,
      and were depending on your commissions to pull you out, and that some new
      job was hanging fire and perhaps some of us could help as we did on the
      church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; rejoined Garry, in a hopeless tone, &ldquo;nothing will help but a
      certified check. Perhaps your Mr. Grayson might do something,&rdquo; he
      continued in the same voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle Peter! Why, Garry, he doesn't earn ten thousand dollars in three
      years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again there was silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, would it be any use for you to ask Arthur Breen? He wouldn't give
      me a cent, and I wouldn't ask him. I don't believe in laying down on your
      wife's relations, but he might do it for you now that you're getting up in
      the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack bent his head in deep thought. The proposal that his uncle had made
      him for the ore lands passed in review. At that time he could have turned
      over the property to Breen. But it was worthless now. He shook his head:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think so.&rdquo; Then he added quickly&mdash;&ldquo;Have you been to Mr.
      Morris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, and won't. I'd die first!&rdquo; this came in a sharp, determined voice, as
      if it had jumped hot from his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he thinks the world of you; it was only a week ago that he told Mr.
      MacFarlane that you were the best man he ever had in his office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;that's why I won't go, Jack. I'll play my hand alone and take
      the consequences, but I won't beg of my friends; not a friend like Mr.
      Morris; any coward can do that. Mr. Morris believes in me,&mdash;I want
      him to continue to believe in me. That's worth twenty times ten thousand
      dollars.&rdquo; His eyes flashed for the first time. Again the old Garry shone
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When must you have this money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the end of the week,&mdash;before next Monday, anyhow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the situation is not hopeless?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not entirely. I have one card left;&mdash;I'll play it to-morrow,
      then I'll know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there a chance of its winning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes and no. As for the 'yes,' I've always had my father's luck. Minotts
      don't go under and I don't believe I shall, we take risks and we win.
      That's what brought me to Corklesville, and you see what I have made of
      myself. Just at present I've got my foot in a bear trap, but I'll pull out
      somehow. As for the 'no' part of it,&mdash;I ought to tell you that the
      warehouse stock has been knocked endways by another corporation which has
      a right of way that cuts ours and is going to steal our business. I think
      it's a put-up job to bear our stock so they can scoop it and consolidate;
      that's why I am holding on. I've flung in every dollar I can rake and
      scrape for margin and my stocking's about turned inside out. I got a tip
      last week that I thought would land us all on our feet, but it worked the
      other way.&rdquo; Something connected with the tip must have stirred him for his
      face clouded as he rose to his feet, exclaiming: &ldquo;Have a drop, Jack?&mdash;that
      last one braced me up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack shook his head, and again Garry settled himself back in his
      chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am powerless, Garry,&rdquo; said Jack. &ldquo;If I had the money you should have
      it. I have nothing but my salary and I have drawn only a little of that
      lately, so as to help out in starting the new work. I thought I had
      something in an ore bank my father left me, but it is valueless, I find. I
      suppose I could put some life in it if I would work it along the lines
      Uncle Arthur wants me to, but I can't and won't do that. Somehow, Garry,
      this stock business follows me everywhere. It drove me out of Uncle
      Arthur's office and house, although I never regretted that,&mdash;and now
      it hits you. I couldn't do anything to help Charlie Gilbert then and I
      can't do anything to help you now, unless you can think of some way. Is
      there any one that I can see except Uncle Arthur,&mdash;anybody I can talk
      to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've done that, Jack. I've followed every lead, borrowed every dollar I
      could,&mdash;been turned down half a dozen times, but I kept on. Got it in
      the neck twice to-day from some fellows I thought would help push.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack started forward, a light breaking over his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have it, Garry! Suppose that I go to Mr. Morris. I can talk to him,
      maybe, in a way you would not like to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Garry lifted his head and sat erect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by God!&mdash;you'll do nothing of the kind!&rdquo; he cried, as he brought
      his fist down on the arm of his chair. &ldquo;That man I love as I love nothing
      else in this world&mdash;wife&mdash;baby&mdash;nothing! I'll go under, but
      I'll never let him see me crawl. I'll be Garry Minott to him as long as I
      breathe. The same man he trusted,&mdash;the same man he loved,&mdash;for
      he does love me, and always did!&rdquo; He hesitated and his voice broke, as if
      a sob clogged it. After a moment's struggle he went on: &ldquo;I was a damned
      fool to leave him or I wouldn't be where I am. 'Garry,' he said to me that
      last day when he took me into his office and shut the door,&mdash;'Garry,
      stay on here a while longer; wait till next year. If it's more pay you
      want, fix it to suit yourself. I've got two boys coming along; they'll
      both be through the Beaux Arts in a year or so. I'm getting on and I'm
      getting tired. Stay on and go in with them.' And what did I do? Well,
      what's the use of talking?&mdash;you know it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack moved his chair and put his arm over his shoulder as a woman would
      have done. He had caught the break in his voice and knew how manfully he
      was struggling to keep up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry, old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mr. Morris thought that way, then, why won't he help you now? What's
      ten thousand to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&mdash;not a drop in the bucket! He'd begin drawing the check
      before I'd finished telling him what I wanted it for. I'm in a hole and
      don't know which way to turn, but when I think of what he's done for me
      I'll rot in hell before I'll take his money.&rdquo; Again his voice had the old
      ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Garry,&rdquo; insisted Jack, &ldquo;if I can see Morris in the morning and lay
      the whole matter before him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll do nothing of the kind, do you hear!&mdash;keep still&mdash;somebody's
      coming downstairs. Not a word if it is Corinne. She is carrying now all
      she can stand up under.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He passed his hand across his face with a quick movement and brushed the
      tears from his cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember, not a word. I haven't told her everything. I tried to, but I
      couldn't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her now, Garry,&rdquo; cried Jack. &ldquo;Now&mdash;to-night,&rdquo; his voice rising
      on the last word. &ldquo;Before you close your eyes. You never needed her help
      as you do now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't&mdash;it would break her heart. Keep still!&mdash;that's her
      step.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Corinne entered the room slowly and walked to Garry's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baby's asleep now,&rdquo; she said in a subdued voice, &ldquo;and I'm going to take
      you to bed. You won't mind, Jack, will you? Come, dear,&rdquo; and she slipped
      her hand under his arm to lift him from his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry rose from his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; he answered assuming his old cheerful tone, &ldquo;I'll go. I AM
      tired, I guess, Cory, and bed's the best place for me. Good-night, old
      man,&mdash;give my love to Ruth,&rdquo; and he followed his wife out of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited until the two had turned to mount the stairs, caught a
      significant flash from Garry's dark eyes as a further reminder of his
      silence, and, opening the front door, closed it softly behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth was waiting for him. She had been walking the floor during the last
      half hour peering out now and then into the dark, with ears wide open for
      his step.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was so worried, my precious,&rdquo; she cried, drawing his cheek down to her
      lips. &ldquo;You stayed so long. Is it very dreadful?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack put his arm around her, led her into the sitting-room and shut the
      door. Then the two settled beside each other on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty bad,&mdash;my darling&mdash;&rdquo; Jack answered at last,&mdash;&ldquo;very
      bad, really.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he been drinking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Worse,&mdash;he has been dabbling in Wall Street and may lose every cent
      he has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth leaned her head on her hand: &ldquo;I was afraid it was something awful
      from the way Corinne spoke. Oh, poor dear,&mdash;I'm so sorry! Does she
      know now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She knows he's in trouble, but she doesn't know how bad it is. I begged
      him to tell her, but he wouldn't promise. He's afraid of hurting her&mdash;afraid
      to trust her, I think, with his sufferings. He's making an awful mistake,
      but I could not move him. He might listen to you if you tried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he must tell her, Jack,&rdquo; Ruth cried in an indignant tone. &ldquo;It is not
      fair to her; it is not fair to any woman,&mdash;and it is not kind.
      Corinne is not a child any longer;&mdash;she's a grown woman, and a
      mother. How can she help him unless she knows? Jack, dear, look into my
      eyes;&rdquo; her face was raised to his;&mdash;&ldquo;Promise me, my darling, that no
      matter what happens to you you'll tell me first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Jack promised.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      When Jack awoke the next morning his mind was still intent on helping
      Garry out of his difficulties. Where the money was to come from, and how
      far even ten thousand dollars would go in bridging over the crisis, even
      should he succeed in raising so large a sum, were the questions which
      caused him the most anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter from Peter, while it did not bring any positive relief, shed a
      ray of light on the situation:
    </p>
    <p>
      I have just had another talk with the director of our bank&mdash;the one I
      told you was interested in steel works in Western Maryland. He by no means
      agrees with either you or MacFarlane as to the value of the ore deposits
      in that section, and is going to make an investigation of your property
      and let me know. You may, in fact, hear from him direct as I gave him your
      address.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dear love to Ruth and your own good self.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was indeed good news if anything came of it, but it wouldn't help
      Garry. Should he wait till Garry had played that last card he had spoken
      of, which he was so sure would win, or should he begin at once to try and
      raise the money?
    </p>
    <p>
      This news at any other time would have set his hopes to fluttering. If
      Peter's director was made of money and intent on throwing it away; and if
      a blast furnace or a steel plant, or whatever could turn worthless rock
      into pruning-hooks and ploughshares, should by some act of folly be built
      in the valley at the foot of the hill he owned, why something might come
      of it. But, then, so might skies fall and everybody have larks on toast
      for breakfast. Until then his concern was with Garry.
    </p>
    <p>
      He realized that the young architect was too broken down physically and
      mentally to decide any question of real moment. His will power was gone
      and his nerves unstrung. The kindest thing therefore that any friend could
      do for him, would be to step in and conduct the fight without him. Garry's
      wishes to keep the situation from Corinne would be respected, but that did
      not mean that his own efforts should be relaxed. Yet where would he begin,
      and on whom? MacFarlane had just told him that Morris was away from home
      and would not be back for several days. Peter was out of the question so
      far as his own means&mdash;or lack of means&mdash;was concerned, and he
      could not, of course, ask him to go into debt for a man who had never been
      his friend, especially when neither he nor Garry had any security to
      offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      He finally decided to talk the whole matter over with MacFarlane and act
      on his advice. The clear business head of his Chief cleared the situation
      as a north-west wind blows out a fog.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay out of it, Jack,&rdquo; he exclaimed in a quick, positive voice that
      showed he had made up his mind long before Jack had finished his recital.
      &ldquo;Minott is a gambler, and so was his father before him. He has got to take
      his lean with his fat. If you pulled him out of this hole he would be in
      another in six months. It's in his blood, just as much as it is in your
      blood to love horses and the woods. Let him alone;&mdash;Corinne's
      stepfather is the man to help; that's his business, and that's where
      Minott wants to go. If there is anything of value in this Warehouse
      Company, Arthur Breen &amp; Co. can carry the certificates for Minott
      until they go up and he can get out. If there is nothing, then the sooner
      Garry sells out and lets it go the better. Stay out, Jack. It's not in the
      line of your duty. It's hard on his wife and he is having a devil of a row
      to hoe, but it will be the best thing for him in the end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack listened in respectful silence, as he always did, to MacFarlane's
      frank outburst, but it neither changed his mind nor cooled his ardor.
      Where his heart was concerned his judgment rarely worked. Then, loyalty to
      a friend in distress was the one thing his father had taught him. He did
      not agree with his Chief's view of the situation. If Garry was born a
      gambler, he had kept that fact concealed from him and from his wife. He
      recalled the conversation he had had with him some weeks before, when he
      was so enthusiastic over the money he was going to make in the new
      Warehouse deal. He had been selected as the architect for the new
      buildings, and it was quite natural that he should have become interested
      in the securities of the company. This threatened calamity was one that
      might overtake any man. Get Garry out of this hole and he would stay out;
      let him sink, and his whole career would be ruined. And then there was a
      sentimental side to it even if Garry was a gambler&mdash;one that could
      not be ignored when he thought of Corinne and the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Late in the afternoon, his mind still unsettled, he poured out his
      anxieties to Ruth. She did not disappoint him. Her big heart swelled only
      with sympathy for the wife who was suffering. It made no difference to her
      that Corinne had never been even polite, never once during the sojourn of
      the Minotts in the village having manifested the slightest interest either
      in her own or Jack's affairs&mdash;not even when MacFarlane was injured,
      nor yet when the freshet might have ruined them all. Ruth's generous
      nature had no room in it for petty rancors or little hurts. Then, too,
      Jack was troubled for his friend. What was there for her to do but to
      follow the lamp he held up to guide her feet&mdash;the lamp which now shed
      its glad effulgence over both? So they talked on, discussing various ways
      and means, new ties born of a deeper understanding binding them the closer&mdash;these
      two, who, as they sometimes whispered to each other, were &ldquo;enlisted for
      life,&rdquo; ready to meet it side by side, whatever the day developed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before they parted, she promised again to go and see Corinne and cheer her
      up. &ldquo;She cannot be left alone, Jack, with this terrible thing hanging over
      her,&rdquo; she urged, &ldquo;and you must meet Garry when he returns to-night. Then
      we can learn what he has done&mdash;perhaps he will have fixed everything
      himself.&rdquo; But though Jack went to the station and waited until the arrival
      of the last train had dropped its passengers, there was no sign of Garry.
      Nor did Ruth find Corinne. She had gone to the city, so the nurse said,
      with Mr. Minott by the early train and would not be back until the next
      day. Until their return Jack and Ruth found their hands tied.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the afternoon of the second day a boy called at the brick office where
      Jack was settling up the final accounts connected with the &ldquo;fill&rdquo; and the
      tunnel, preparatory to the move to Morfordsburg, and handed him a note. It
      was from Corinne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in great trouble. Please come to me at once,&rdquo; it read. &ldquo;I am here at
      home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Corinne was waiting for him in the hall. She took his hand without a word
      of welcome, and drew him into the small room where she had seen him two
      nights before. This time she shut and locked the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. McGowan has just been here,&rdquo; she moaned in a voice that showed how
      terrible was the strain. &ldquo;He tried to force his way up into Garry's room
      but I held him back. He is coming again with some one of the church
      trustees. Garry had a bad turn in New York and we came home by the noon
      train, and I have made him lie down and sent for the doctor. McGowan must
      not see him; it will kill him if he does. Don't leave us, Jack!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how dare he come here and try to force his&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will dare. He cursed and went on dreadfully. The door was shut, but
      Garry heard him. Oh, Jack!&mdash;what are we to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't worry, Corinne; I'll take care of Mr. McGowan. I myself heard Garry
      tell him that he would attend to his payments in a few days, and he went
      away satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but McGowan says he has been to the bank and has also seen the
      Rector, and will stop at nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's fingers tightened and his lips came together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will stop on that threshold,&rdquo; he said in a low, determined voice, &ldquo;and
      never pass it&mdash;no matter what he wants. I will go up and tell Garry
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not yet&mdash;wait,&rdquo; she pleaded, in nervous twitching tones&mdash;with
      pauses between each sentence. &ldquo;You must hear it all first. Garry had not
      told me all when you were here two nights ago; he did not tell me until
      after you left. Then I knelt down by his bed and put my arms around him
      and he told me everything&mdash;about the people he had seen&mdash;and&mdash;McGowan&mdash;everything.&rdquo;
       She ceased speaking and hid her eyes with the back of one hand as if to
      shut out some spectre, then she stumbled on. &ldquo;We took the early train for
      New York, and I waited until my stepfather was in his office and went into
      his private room. It was Garry's last hope. He thought Mr. Breen would
      listen to me on account of mother. I told him of our dreadful situation;
      how Garry must have ten thousand dollars, and must have it in twenty-four
      hours, to save us all from ruin. Would you believe, Jack&mdash;that he
      laughed and said it was an old story; that Garry had no business to be
      speculating; that he had told him a dozen times to keep out of the Street;
      that if Garry had any collaterals of any kind, he would loan him ten
      thousand dollars or any other sum, but that he had no good money to throw
      after bad. I did all I could; I almost went down on my knees to him; I
      begged for myself and my mother, but he only kept saying&mdash;'You go
      home, Corinne, and look after your baby&mdash;women don't understand these
      things.' Oh, Jack!&mdash;I could not believe that he was the same man who
      married my mother&mdash;and he isn't. Every year he has grown harder and
      harder; he is a thousand times worse than when you lived with him. Garry
      was waiting outside for me, and when I told him he turned as white as a
      sheet, and had to hold on to the iron railing for a moment. It was all I
      could do to get him home. If he sees Mr. McGowan now it will kill him; he
      can't pay him and he must tell him so, and it will all come out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he will pay him, Corinne, when he gets well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There came a pause. Then she said slowly as if each word was wrung from
      her heart:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no money. Garry took the trust funds from the church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No money, Corinne! You don't mean&mdash;you can't&mdash;Oh! My God! Not
      Garry! No&mdash;not Garry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! I mean it. He expected to pay it back, but the people he is with in
      New York lied to him, and now it is all gone.&rdquo; There was no change in her
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood gazing into his face; not a tear in her eyes; no quiver of her
      lips. She had passed that stage; she was like a victim led to the stake in
      whom nothing but dull endurance is left.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack backed into a chair and sat with bowed head, his cheeks in his hands.
      Had the earth opened under him he could not have been more astounded.
      Garry Minott a defaulter! Garry a thief! Everything seemed to whirl about
      him&mdash;only the woman remained quiet&mdash;still standing&mdash;her
      calm, impassive eyes fixed on his bowed head; her dry, withering, soulless
      words still vibrating in the hushed room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did this happen, Corinne&mdash;this&mdash;this taking of Mr.
      McGowan's money?&rdquo; The words came between his closed fingers, as if he,
      too, would shut out some horrible shape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some two weeks ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did you know of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Night before last, after you left him. I knew he was in trouble, but I
      did not know it was as bad as this. If Mr. Breen had helped me everything
      would have been all right, for Garry sold out all the stock he had in the
      Warehouse Company, and this ten thousand dollars is all he owes.&rdquo; She
      shivered as she spoke, and her pale, tired eyes closed as if in pain.
      Nothing was said between them for a while, and neither of them stirred.
      During the silence the front door was heard to open, letting in the
      village doctor, who mounted the stairs, his footfalls reverberating in
      Garry's room overhead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack raised his eyes at last and studied her closely. The frail body
      seemed more crumpled and forlorn in the depths of the chair, where she had
      sunk, than when she had been standing before him. The blonde hair, always
      so glossy, was dry as hemp; the small, upturned nose, once so piquant and
      saucy, was thin and pinched&mdash;almost transparent; the washed-out,
      colorless eyes, which in her girlhood had flashed and sparkled so
      roguishly, were half hidden under swollen lids. The arms were flat, the
      hands like bird claws. The white heat of a furnace of agony had shrivelled
      her poor body, drying up all the juices of its youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet with the scorching there had crept into the wan face, and into the
      tones of her tired, heart-broken voice something Jack had never found in
      her as a girl&mdash;something of tenderness, unselfishness&mdash;of
      self-sacrifice for another and with it there flamed up in his own heart a
      determination to help&mdash;to wipe out everything&mdash;to sponge the
      record, to reestablish the man who in a moment of agony had given way to
      an overpowering temptation and brought his wife to this condition. A lump
      rose in his throat, and a look of his old father shone out of his face&mdash;that
      look with which in the years gone by he had defied jury, district
      attorney, and public opinion for what he considered mercy. And mercy
      should be exercised now. Garry had never done one dishonest act before,
      and never, God helping, should he be judged for this.
    </p>
    <p>
      He, John Breen, let Garry be called a common thief! Garry whose every
      stand in Corklesville had been for justice; Garry whom Morris loved, whose
      presence brought a cheery word of welcome from every room he entered! Let
      him be proclaimed a defaulter, insulted by ruffians like McGowan, and
      treated like a felon&mdash;brilliant, lovable, forceful Garry! Never, if
      he had to go down on his knees to Holker Morris or any other man who could
      lend him a dollar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corinne must have seen the new look in his face, for her own eyes
      brightened as she asked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you thought of something that can help him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack did not answer. His mind was too intent on finding some thread which
      would unravel the tangle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does anybody else know of this, Corinne?&rdquo; he asked at last in a
      low-pitched voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody must,&rdquo; he exclaimed firmly. Then he added gently&mdash;&ldquo;Why did
      you tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He asked me to. It would all have come out in the end, and he didn't want
      you to see McGowan and not know the truth. Keep still&mdash;some one is
      knocking,&rdquo; she whispered, her fingers pressed to her lips in her fright.
      &ldquo;I know it is McGowan, Jack. Shall I see him, or will you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will&mdash;you stay here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack lifted himself erect and braced back his shoulders. He intended to be
      polite to McGowan, but he also intended to be firm. He also intended to
      refuse him any information or promise of any kind until the regular
      monthly meeting of the Church Board which would occur on Monday. This
      would give him time to act, and perhaps to save the situation, desperate
      as it looked.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this in his mind he turned the key and threw wide the door. It was
      the doctor who stood outside. He seemed to be laboring under some
      excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard you were here, Mr. Breen&mdash;come upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jacked obeyed mechanically. Garry had evidently heard of his being
      downstairs and had some instructions to give, or some further confession
      to make. He would save him now from that humiliation; he would get his
      arms around him, as Corinne had done, and tell him he was still his friend
      and what he yet intended to do to pull him through, and that nothing which
      he had done had wrecked his affection for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      As these thoughts rushed over him his pace quickened, mounting the stairs
      two steps at a time so that he might save his friend even a moment of
      additional suffering. The doctor touched Jack on the shoulder, made a sign
      for him to moderate his steps, and the two moved to where his patient lay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Garry was on the bed, outside the covering, when they entered. He was
      lying on his back, his head and neck flat on a pillow, one foot resting on
      the floor. He was in his trousers and shirt; his coat and waistcoat lay
      where he had thrown them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Garry,&rdquo; began Jack in a low voice&mdash;&ldquo;I just ran in to say that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sick man did not move.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack stopped, and turned his head to the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Asleep?&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No;&mdash;drugged. That's why I wanted you to see him before I called his
      wife. Is he accustomed to this sort of thing?&rdquo; and he picked up a bottle
      from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack took the phial in his hand; it was quite small, and had a glass
      stopper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Some preparation of chloral, I should think; smells and
      looks like it. I'll take it home and find out. If he's been taking this
      right along he may know how much he can stand, but if he's experimenting
      with it, he'll wake up some fine morning in the next world. What do you
      know about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only what I have heard Mrs. Minott say,&rdquo; Jack whispered behind his hand.
      &ldquo;He can't sleep without it, she told me. He's been under a terrible
      business strain lately and couldn't stand the pressure, I expect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's a little better,&rdquo; returned the doctor, moving the apparently
      lifeless arm aside and placing his ear close to the patient's breast. For
      a moment he listened intently, then he drew up a chair and sat down beside
      him, his fingers on Garry's pulse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't think he's in danger, do you, doctor?&rdquo; asked Jack in an anxious
      tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;he'll pull through. His breathing is bad, but his heart is doing
      fairly well. But he's got to stop this sort of thing.&rdquo; Here the old
      doctor's voice rose as his indignation increased (nothing would wake
      Garry). &ldquo;It's criminal&mdash;it's damnable! Every time one of you New York
      people get worried, or short of money or stocks, or what not, off you go
      to a two-cent drug shop and buy enough poison to kill a family. It's
      damnable, Breen&mdash;and you must tell Minott so when he wakes up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack made no protest against being included in the denunciation. He was
      too completely absorbed in the fate of the man who lay in a stupor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there anything can be done for him?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't tell yet. He may only have taken a small dose. I will watch him
      for a while. But if his pulse weakens we must shake him awake somehow. You
      needn't wait I'll call you if I want you, You've told me what I wanted to
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack bent over Garry, his heart wrung with pity and dismay. He was
      still there when the door opened softly and a servant entered, tiptoed to
      where he stood, and whispered in his ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Minott says, sir, that Mr. McGowan and another man are downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The contractor was standing in the hall, his hat still on his head. The
      other man Jack recognized as Murphy, one of the church building trustees.
      That McGowan was in an ugly mood was evident from the expression on his
      face, his jaw setting tighter when he discovered that Jack and not Garry
      was coming down to meet him; Jack having been associated with MacFarlane,
      who had &ldquo;robbed him of damages&rdquo; to the &ldquo;fill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came to see Mr. Minott,&rdquo; McGowan blurted out before Jack's feet had
      touched the bottom step of the stairs. &ldquo;I hear he's in&mdash;come home at
      dinner time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack continued his advance without answering until he had reached their
      side. Then with a &ldquo;Good-evening, gentlemen,&rdquo; he said in a perfectly even
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Minott is ill and can see no one. I have just left the doctor sitting
      beside his bed. If there is anything I can do for either of you I will do
      it with pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      McGowan shoved his hat back on his forehead as if to give himself more
      air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That kind of guff won't go with me no longer,&rdquo; he snarled, his face
      growing redder every instant. &ldquo;This ill business is played out. He
      promised me three nights ago he'd make out a certificate next day&mdash;you
      heard him say it&mdash;and I waited for him all the morning and he never
      showed up. And then he sneaks off to New York at daylight and stays away
      for two nights more, and then sneaks home again in the middle of the day
      when you don't expect him, and goes to bed and sends for the doctor. How
      many kinds of a damned fool does he take me for? That work's been finished
      three weeks yesterday; the money is all in the bank to pay for it just as
      soon as he signs the check, and he don't sign it, and ye can't get him to
      sign it. Ain't that so, Jim Murphy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Murphy nodded, and McGowan blazed on: &ldquo;If you want to know what I think
      about it&mdash;there's something crooked about the whole business, and it
      gets crookeder all the time. He's drunk, if he's anything&mdash;boiling
      drunk and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack laid the full weight of his hand on the speaker's shoulder:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop short off where you are, Mr. McGowan.&rdquo; The voice came as if through
      tightly clenched teeth. &ldquo;If you have any business that I can attend to I
      am here to do it, but you can't remain here and abuse Mr. Minott. My
      purpose in coming downstairs was to help you if I could, but you must act
      like a man, not like a ruffian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Murphy stepped quickly between the two men:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go easy, Mac,&rdquo; he cried in a conciliatory tone. &ldquo;If the doctor's with him
      ye can't see him. Hear what Mr. Breen has to say; ye got to wait anyhow.
      Of course, Mr. Breen, Mr. McGowan is het up because the men is gettin'
      ugly, and he ain't got money enough for his next pay-roll, and the last
      one ain't all paid yit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      McGowan again shifted his hat&mdash;this time he canted it on one side.
      His companion's warning had had its effect, for his voice was now pitched
      in a lower key.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There ain't no use talking pay-roll to Mr. Breen, Jim,&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;He
      knows what it is; he gits up agin' it once in a while himself. If he'll
      tell me just when I'm going to get my money I'll wait like any decent man
      would wait, but I want to know, and I want to know now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that instant the door of the sitting-room opened, and Corinne,
      shrinking as one in mortal fright, glided out and made a hurried escape
      upstairs. Murphy sagged back against the wall and waited respectfully for
      her to disappear. McGowan did not alter his position nor did he remove his
      hat, though he waited until she had reached the landing before speaking
      again:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, what are you going to do, Mr. Breen?&rdquo; he demanded in threatening
      tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said Jack in his same even voice, his eyes never moving from
      the contractor's. &ldquo;Nothing, until you get into a different frame of mind.&rdquo;
       Then he turned to Murphy: &ldquo;When Mr. McGowan removes his hat, Mr. Murphy,
      and shows some sign of being a gentleman I will take you both into the
      next room and talk this matter over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      McGowan flushed scarlet and jerked his hat from his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well she come on me sudden like and I didn't see her till she'd got by.
      Of course, if you've got anything to say, I'm here to listen, Where'll we
      go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack turned and led the way into the sitting-room, where he motioned them
      both to seats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now what is the exact amount of your voucher?&rdquo; he asked, when he had
      drawn up a chair and sat facing them.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan fumbled in his inside pocket and drew forth a slip of paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little short of ten thousand dollars,&rdquo; he answered in a business-like
      tone of voice. &ldquo;There's the figures,&rdquo; and he handed the slip to Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When is this payment to be made?&rdquo; continued Jack, glancing at the slip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, when the money is due, of course,&rdquo; he cried in a louder key. &ldquo;Here's
      the contract&mdash;see&mdash;read it; then you'll know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack ran his eye over the document until it fell on the payment clause.
      This he read twice, weighing each word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It says at the monthly meeting of the Board of Trustees, does it not?&rdquo; he
      answered, smothering all trace of the relief the words brought him.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan changed color. &ldquo;Well, yes&mdash;but that ain't the way the
      payments has always been made,&rdquo; he stammered out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I am right, the meeting takes place on Monday next?&rdquo; continued
      Jack in a decided tone, not noticing the interruption.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I suppose so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Monday night, Mr. McGowan, either Mr. Minott or I will be on
      hand. You must excuse me now. Mrs. Minott wants me, I think,&rdquo; and he
      handed McGowan the contract and walked toward the door, where he stood
      listening. Something was happening upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan and his friend looked at each other in silence. The commotion
      overhead only added to their discomfiture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you think, Jim?&rdquo; McGowan said at last in a subdued, baffled
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there ain't no use thinkin', Mac. If it's writ that way, it's writ
      that way; that's all there is to it&mdash;&rdquo; and the two joined Jack who
      had stepped into the hall, his eyes up the stairway as if he was listening
      intensely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you say, Mr. Breen, that Mr. Minott will meet us at the Board
      meeting on Monday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack was about to reply when he caught sight of the doctor, his hand
      sliding rapidly down the stair-rail as he approached.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan, fearing to be interrupted, repeated his question in a louder
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you say I'll see Mr. Minott on Monday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor crossed to Jack's side. He was breathing heavily, his lips
      quivering; he looked like a man who had received some sudden shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go up to Mrs. Minott,&rdquo; he gasped. &ldquo;It's all over, Breen. He's dying. He
      took the whole bottle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this instant an agonizing shriek cut the air. It was the voice of
      Corinne.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      No one suspected that the young architect had killed himself. Garry was
      known to have suffered from insomnia, and was supposed to have taken an
      overdose of chloral. The doctor so decided, and the doctor's word was law
      in such MATTERS, and so there was no coroner's inquest. Then again, it was
      also known that he was doing a prosperous business with several buildings
      still in course of construction, and that his wife's stepfather was a
      prominent banker.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan and his friends were stupefied. One hope was left, and that was
      Jack's promise that either he or Garry would be at the trustees' meeting
      on Monday night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack had not forgotten. Indeed nothing else filled his mind. There were
      still three days in which to work. The shock of his friend's death,
      tremendous as it was, had only roused him to a greater need of action. The
      funeral was to take place on Sunday, but he had Saturday and Monday left.
      What he intended to do for Garry and his career he must now do for Garry's
      family and Garry's reputation. The obligation had really increased,
      because Garry could no longer fight his battles himself; nor was there a
      moment to lose. The slightest spark of suspicion would kindle a flame of
      inquiry, and the roar of an investigation would follow. McGowan had
      already voiced his own distrust of Garry's methods. No matter what the
      cost, this money must be found before Monday night.
    </p>
    <p>
      The secret of both the suicide and the defalcation was carefully guarded
      from MacFarlane, who, with his daughter, went at once to Minott's house,
      proffering his services to the stricken widow, but nothing was withheld
      from Ruth. The serious financial obligations which Jack was about to
      undertake would inevitably affect their two lives; greater, therefore,
      than the loyalty he owed to the memory of his dead friend, was the loyalty
      which he owed to the woman who was to be his wife, and from whom he had
      promised to hide no secrets. Though he felt sure what her answer would be,
      his heart gave a great bound of relief when she answered impulsively,
      without a thought for herself or their future:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, dearest. These things make me love you more. You are so
      splendid, Jack. And you never disappoint me. It is Garry's poor little boy
      who must be protected. Everybody would pity the wife, but nobody would
      pity the child. He will always be pointed at when he grows up. Dear little
      tot! He lay in my arms so sweet and fresh this morning, and put his baby
      hands upon my cheek, and looked so appealingly into my face. Oh, Jack, we
      must help him. He has done nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were sitting together as she spoke, her head on his shoulder, her
      fingers held tight in his strong, brown hand. She could get closer to him
      in this position, she always told him: these hands and cheeks were the
      poles of a battery between which flowed and flashed the vitality of two
      sound bodies, and through which quivered the ecstasy of two souls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the thought of Garry and what he had been, in the days of his
      brilliancy, and of what he had done to crush the lives about him came to
      her. Could she not find some excuse for him, something which she might use
      as her own silent defence of him in the years that were to come?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think Garry was out of his mind, Jack? He's been so depressed
      lately?&rdquo; she asked, all her sympathy in her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my blessed, I don't think so. Everybody is more or less insane who
      succumbs to a crisis. Garry believed absolutely in himself and his luck,
      and when the cards went against him he collapsed. And yet he was no more a
      criminal at heart than I am. But that is all over now. He has his
      punishment, poor boy, and it is awful when you think of it. How he could
      bring himself to prove false to his trust is the worst thing about it.
      This is a queer world, my darling, in which we live. I never knew much
      about it until lately. It is not so at home, or was not when I was a boy&mdash;but
      here you can take away a man's character, rob him of his home, corrupt his
      children. You can break your wife's heart, be cruel, revengeful; you can
      lie and be tricky, and no law can touch you&mdash;in fact, you are still a
      respectable citizen. But if you take a dollar-bill out of another man's
      cash drawer, you are sent to jail and branded as a thief. And it is right&mdash;looked
      at from one standpoint&mdash;the protection of society. It is the absence
      of all mercy in the enforcement of the law that angers me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ruth moved her head and nestled the closer. How had she lived all the
      years of her life, she thought to herself, without this shoulder to lean
      on and this hand to guide her? She made no answer. She had never thought
      about these things in that way before, but she would now. It was so
      restful and so blissful just to have him lead her, he who was so strong
      and self-reliant, and whose vision was so clear, and who never dwelt upon
      the little issues. And it was such a relief to reach up her arms and kiss
      him and say, &ldquo;Yes, blessed,&rdquo; and to feel herself safe in his hands. She
      had never been able to do that with her father. He had always leaned on
      her when schemes of economies were to be thought out, or details of their
      daily lives planned. All this was changed now. She had found Jack's heart
      wide open and had slipped inside, his strong will henceforth to be hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still cuddling close, her head on his shoulder, her heart going out to him
      as she thought of the next morning and the task before him, she talked of
      their coming move to the mountains, and of the log-cabin for which Jack
      had already given orders; of the approaching autumn and winter and what
      they would make of it, and of dear daddy's plans and profits, and of how
      long they must wait before a larger log-cabin&mdash;one big enough for two&mdash;would
      be theirs for life&mdash;any and every topic which she thought would
      divert his mind&mdash;but Garry's ghost would not down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what are you going to do first, my darling?&rdquo; she asked at last,
      finding that Jack answered only in monosyllables or remained silent
      altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to see Uncle Arthur in the morning,&rdquo; he answered quickly,
      uncovering his brooding thoughts. &ldquo;It won't do any good, perhaps, but I
      will try it. I have never asked him for a cent for myself, and I won't
      now. He may help Corinne this time, now that Garry is dead. There must be
      some outside money due Garry that he has not been able to collect&mdash;commissions
      on unfinished work. This can be turned in when it is due. Then I am going
      to Uncle Peter, and after that to some of the people we trade with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen was standing by the ticker when Jack entered. It was a busy day in
      the Street and values were going up by leaps and bounds. The broker was
      not in a good humor; many of his customers were short of the market.
    </p>
    <p>
      He followed Jack into his private office and faced him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Funeral's at one o'clock Sunday, I see,&rdquo; he said in a sharp voice, as if
      he resented the incident. &ldquo;Your aunt and I will be out on the noon train.
      She got back this morning, pretty well bunged up. Killed himself, didn't
      he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not the doctor's opinion, sir, and he was with him when he died.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it looks that way to me. He's busted&mdash;and all balled up in the
      Street. If you know anybody who will take the lease off Corinne's hands,
      let me know. She and the baby are coming to live with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack replied that he would make it his business to do so, with pleasure,
      and after giving his uncle the details of Garry's death he finally arrived
      at the tangled condition of his affairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen promptly interrupted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, so Corinne told me. She was in here one day last week and wanted to
      borrow ten thousand dollars. I told her it didn't grow on trees. Suppose I
      had given it to her? Where would it be now. Might as well have thrown it
      in the waste-basket. So I shut down on the whole business&mdash;had to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited until his uncle had relieved his mind. The state of the market
      had something to do with his merciless point of view; increasing
      irritability, due to loss of sleep, and his habits had more. The outburst
      over, Jack said in a calm direct voice, watching the effect of the words
      as a gunner watches a shell from his gun:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you lend it to me, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arthur was pacing his private office, casting about in his mind how to
      terminate the interview, when Jack's shot overhauled him. Garry's sudden
      death had already led him to waste a few more minutes of his time than he
      was accustomed to on a morning like this, unless there was business in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned sharply, looked at Jack for an instant, and dropped into the
      revolving chair fronting his desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he said in a tone of undisguised surprise:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lend you ten thousand dollars! What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To clear up some matters of Garry's at Corklesville. The Warehouse matter
      has been closed out, so Corinne tells me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that's it, is it? I thought you wanted it for yourself. Who signs for
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On what collateral?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Breen leaned back in his chair. The unsophisticated innocence of this boy
      from the country would be amusing if it were not so stupid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you earning, Jack?&rdquo; he said at last, with a half-derisive,
      half-humorous expression on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A thousand dollars a year.&rdquo; Jack had never taken his eyes from his
      uncle's face, nor had he moved a muscle of his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it would take you ten years to pay it if you dumped it all in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got anything else to offer?&rdquo; This came in a less supercilious tone. The
      calm, direct manner of the young man had begun to have its effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing but my ore property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's good for nothing. I made a mistake when I wanted you to put it in
      here. Glad you didn't take me up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So am I. My own investigation showed the same thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the ore's of poor quality,&rdquo; continued Breen in a decided tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very poor quality, what I saw of it,&rdquo; rejoined Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we will check that off. MacFarlane got any thing he could turn in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;and I wouldn't ask him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you mean to tell me, Jack, that you are going broke yourself to help
      a dead man pay his debts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you choose to put it that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put it that way? Why, what other way is there to put it? You'll excuse
      me, Jack&mdash;but you always were a fool when your damned idiotic notions
      of what is right and wrong got into your head&mdash;and you'll never get
      over it. You might have had an interest in my business by this time, and
      be able to write your check in four figures; and yet here you are cooped
      up in a Jersey village, living at a roadside tavern, and getting a
      thousand dollars a year. That's what your father did before you; went
      round paying everybody's debts; never could teach him anything; died poor,
      just as I told him he would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had to hold on to his chair to keep his mouth closed. His father's
      memory was dangerous ground for any man to tread on&mdash;even his
      father's brother; but the stake for which he was playing was too great to
      be risked by his own anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jack,&rdquo; Breen continued, gathering up a mass of letters and jamming
      them into a pigeon-hole in front of him, as if the whole matter was set
      forth in their pages and he was through with it forever. &ldquo;No&mdash;I guess
      I'll pass on that ten thousand-dollar loan. I am sorry, but A. B. &amp;
      Co, haven't any shekels for that kind of tommy-rot. As to your helping
      Minott, what I've got to say to you is just this: let the other fellow
      walk&mdash;the fellow Garry owes money to&mdash;but don't you butt in.
      They'll only laugh at you. Now you will have to excuse me&mdash;the
      market's kiting, and I've got to watch it. Give my love to Ruth. Your aunt
      and I will be out on the noon train for the funeral. Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was what he had expected. He would, perhaps, have stood a better chance
      if he had read him Peter's encouraging letter of the director's opinion of
      his Cumberland property, and he might also have brought him up standing
      (and gone away with the check in his pocket) if he had told him that the
      money was to save his own wife's daughter and grandchild from disgrace&mdash;but
      that secret was not his. Only as a last, desperate resource would he lay
      that fact bare to a man like Arthur Breen, and perhaps not even then. John
      Breen's word was, or ought to be, sacred enough on which to borrow ten
      thousand dollars or any other sum. That meant a mortgage on his life until
      every cent was paid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Do not smile, dear reader. He is only learning his first lesson in modern
      finance. All young men &ldquo;raised&rdquo; as Jack had been&mdash;and the Scribe is
      one of them&mdash;would have been of the same mind at his age. In a great
      city, when your tea-kettle starts to leaking, you never borrow a whole one
      from your neighbor; you send to the shop at the corner and buy another. In
      the country&mdash;Jack's country, I mean&mdash;miles from a store, you
      borrow your neighbor's, who promptly borrows your saucepan in return. And
      it was so in larger matters: the old Chippendale desk with its secret
      drawer was often the bank&mdash;the only one, perhaps, in a week's
      journey. It is astonishing in these days to think how many dingy, tattered
      or torn bank-notes were fished out of these same receptacles and handed
      over to a neighbor with the customary&mdash;&ldquo;With the greatest pleasure,
      my dear sir. When you can sell your corn or hogs, or that mortgage is paid
      off, you can return it.&rdquo; A man who was able to lend, and who still refused
      to lend, to a friend in his adversity, was a pariah. He had committed the
      unpardonable sin. And the last drop of the best Madeira went the same way
      and with equal graciousness!
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had just come
      in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one from the shop below
      had sent upstairs for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! it's you, my boy!&rdquo; Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms around
      Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room. Then something in the
      boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the tragedy. &ldquo;Yes, I read it all
      in the papers,&rdquo; he exclaimed in a sympathetic voice. &ldquo;Terrible, isn't it!
      Poor Minott. How are his wife and the poor little baby&mdash;and dear
      Ruth. The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course I'm
      going.&rdquo; As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you ill, my boy?&rdquo; he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a seat
      on the sofa. &ldquo;You look terribly worn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter,&rdquo; Jack replied with a glance at
      Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you can
      tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?&mdash;is it Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's face cleared. &ldquo;No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it's your work up in the valley?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;we begin in a month. Everything's ready&mdash;or will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all now.
      Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he were once.
      Yes, it is a dreadful thing to lose a friend. Poor boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;it's not that altogether, Uncle Peter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could not tell him. The dear old gentleman was ignorant of everything
      regarding Garry and his affairs, except that he was a brilliant young
      architect, with a dashing way about him, of whom Morris was proud. This
      image he could not and would not destroy. And yet something must be done
      to switch Peter from the main subject&mdash;at least until Cohen should
      leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is I have just had an interview with Uncle Arthur, and he has
      rather hurt my feelings,&rdquo; Jack continued in explanation, a forced smile on
      his face. &ldquo;I wanted to borrow a little money. All I had to offer as
      security was my word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter immediately became interested. Nothing delighted him so much as to
      talk over Jack's affairs. Was he not a silent partner in the concern?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wanted it, of course, to help out on the new work,&rdquo; he rejoined.
      &ldquo;Yes, it always takes money in the beginning. And what did the old fox
      say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack smiled meaningly. &ldquo;He said that what I called 'my word' wasn't a
      collateral. Wanted something better. So I've got to hunt for it somewhere
      else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he wouldn't give it to you?&rdquo; cried Peter indignantly. &ldquo;No, of course
      not! A man's word doesn't count with these pickers and stealers. Half&mdash;three-quarters&mdash;of
      the business of the globe is done on a man's word. He writes it on the
      bottom or on the back of a slip of paper small enough to light a cigar
      with&mdash;but it's only his word that counts. In these mouse-traps,
      however, these cracks in the wall, they want something they can get rid of
      the moment somebody else says it is not worth what they loaned on it; or
      they want a bond with the Government behind it. Oh, I know them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Cohen laughed&mdash;a dry laugh&mdash;in compliment to Peter's way of
      putting it&mdash;but there was no ring of humor in it. He had been reading
      Jack's mind. There was something behind the forced smile that Peter had
      missed&mdash;something deeper than the lines of anxiety and the haunted
      look in the eyes. This was a different lad from the one with whom he had
      spent so pleasant an evening some weeks before. What had caused the
      change?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you abuse them, Mr. Grayson&mdash;these pawn-brokers,&rdquo; he said in
      his slow, measured way. &ldquo;If every man was a Turk we could take his word,
      but when they are Jews and Christians and such other unreliable people, of
      course they want something for their ducats. It's the same old pound of
      flesh. Very respectable firm this, Mr. Arthur Breen &amp; Co.&mdash;VERY
      respectable people. I used to press off the elder gentleman's coat&mdash;he
      had only two&mdash;one of them I made myself when he first came to New
      York&mdash;but he has forgotten all about it now,&rdquo; and the little tailor
      purred softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had pressed out his morals, Isaac, it would have helped some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They didn't need it. He was a very quiet young man and very polite; not
      so fat, or so red or so rich, as he is now. I saw him the other day in our
      bank. You see,&rdquo; and he winked slyly at Jack, &ldquo;these grand people must
      borrow sometimes, like the rest of us; but he never remembers me any
      more.&rdquo; Isaac paused for a moment as if the reminiscence had recalled some
      amusing incident. When he continued his face had a broad smile&mdash;&ldquo;and
      I must say, too, that he always paid his bills. Once, when he was afraid
      he could not pay, he wanted to bring the coat back, but I wouldn't let
      him. Oh, yes, a very nice young man, Mr. Arthur Breen,&rdquo; and the tailor's
      plump body shook with suppressed laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, of course, that he is this young man's uncle,&rdquo; said Peter,
      laying his hand affectionately on Jack's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I know about it. I saw the likeness that first day you came in,&rdquo;
       he continued, nodding to Jack. &ldquo;It was one of the times when your sister,
      the magnificent Miss Grayson was here, Mr. Grayson.&rdquo; Isaac always called
      her so, a merry twinkle in his eye when he said it, but with a face and
      voice showing nothing but the deepest respect; at which Peter would laugh
      a gentle laugh in apology for his sister's peculiarities, a dislike of
      little tailors being one of them&mdash;this little tailor especially.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, Mr. Breen, I hope you will have better luck,&rdquo; Isaac said, rising
      from his chair and holding out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are not going, Isaac,&rdquo; protested Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, this young gentleman, I see, is in a good deal of trouble and I
      cannot help him much, so I will go away,&rdquo; and with a wave of his pudgy
      hand he shut the door behind him and trotted downstairs to his shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps assured the Jew's
      permanent departure, then he turned to Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not want to say too much before Mr. Cohen, but Uncle Arthur's
      refusal has upset me completely. I could not have believed it of him. You
      must help me somehow, Uncle Peter. I don't mean with your own money; you
      have not got it to spare&mdash;but so I can get it somewhere. I must have
      it, and I can't rest until I do get it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, my dear boy! Is it so bad as that? I thought you were joking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tried to joke about it while Mr. Cohen was here, but he saw through it,
      I know, from the way he spoke: but this really is a very serious matter;
      more serious than anything that ever happened to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter walked to the sofa and sat down. Jack's manner and the tone of his
      voice showed that a grave calamity had overtaken the boy. He sat looking
      into Jack's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; he said, his heart in his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must have ten thousand dollars. How and where can I borrow it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter started. &ldquo;Ten thousand dollars!&rdquo; he repeated in undisguised
      surprise. &ldquo;Whew! Why, Jack, that's a very large sum of money for you to
      want. Why, my dear boy, this is&mdash;well&mdash;well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not for me, Uncle Peter&mdash;or I would not come to you for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For whom is it, then?&rdquo; Peter asked, in a tone that showed how great was
      his relief now that Jack was not involved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ask me, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter was about to speak, but he checked himself. He saw it all now. The
      money was for MacFarlane, and the boy did not like to say so. He had heard
      something of Henry's financial difficulties caused by the damage to the
      &ldquo;fill.&rdquo; He thought that this had been made good; he saw now that he was
      misinformed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When do you want it, Jack?&rdquo; he resumed. He was willing to help, no matter
      who it was for.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before Monday night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter drew out his watch as if to find some relief from its dial, and
      slipped it into his pocket again. It was not yet three o'clock and his
      bank was still open, but it did not contain ten thousand dollars or any
      other sum that he could draw upon. Besides, neither Jack, nor MacFarlane,
      nor anybody connected with Jack, had an account at the Exeter. The
      discounting of their notes was, therefore, out of the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day is a short business day, Jack, being Saturday,&rdquo; he said with a
      sigh. &ldquo;If I had known of this before I might have&mdash;and yet to tell
      you the simple truth, my boy, I don't know a human being in the world who
      would lend me that much money, or whom I could ask for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought maybe Mr. Morris might, if you went to him, but I understand he
      is out of town,&rdquo; returned Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Peter in a perplexed tone&mdash;&ldquo;yes&mdash;Holker has gone
      to Chicago and won't be back for a week.&rdquo; He, too, had thought of Morris
      and the instantaneous way in which he would have reached for his
      check-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you must have it by Monday night?&rdquo; Peter continued, his thoughts
      bringing into review one after the other all the moneyed men he knew.
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;well&mdash;that IS a very short notice. It means Monday to
      hunt in, really&mdash;to-morrow being Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He leaned back and sat in deep thought, Jack watching every expression
      that crossed his face. Perhaps Ruth was mixed up in it in some way.
      Perhaps their marriage depended upon it&mdash;not directly, but indirectly&mdash;making
      a long postponement inevitable. Perhaps MacFarlane had some old score to
      settle. This contracting was precarious business. Once before he had known
      Henry to be in just such straits. Again he consulted his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a new and cheering thought struck him. He rose quickly from his seat
      on the sofa and crossed the room to get his hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a forlorn hope, Jack, but I'll try it. Come back here in an hour&mdash;or
      stay here and wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I'll keep moving,&rdquo; replied Jack. &ldquo;I have thought of some supply men
      who know me; our account is considerable; they would lend it to Mr.
      MacFarlane, but that's not the way I want it. I'll see them and get back
      as soon as I can&mdash;perhaps in a couple of hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then make it eight o'clock, so as to be sure. I have thought of something
      else. Ten thousand dollars,&rdquo; he kept muttering to himself&mdash;&ldquo;ten
      thousand dollars&rdquo;&mdash;as he put on his hat and moved to the door. There
      he stopped and faced about&mdash;his bushy brows tightening as a new
      difficulty confronted him. &ldquo;Well, but for how long?&rdquo; That part of the
      transaction Jack had forgotten to mention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't tell; maybe a year&mdash;maybe more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter advanced a step as if to return to the room and give up the whole
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Jack, my boy, don't you see how impossible a loan of that kind is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack stood irresolute. In his mad desire to save Garry he had not
      considered that phase of the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but I've GOT TO HAVE IT,&rdquo; he cried in a positive tone. &ldquo;You
      would feel just as I do, if you knew the circumstances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter turned without a word and opened the door leading into the hall. &ldquo;Be
      back here at eight,&rdquo; was all he said as he shut the door behind him and
      clattered down the uncarpeted stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly before the appointed hour Jack again mounted the three flights of
      steps to Peter's rooms. He had had a queer experience&mdash;queer for him.
      The senior member of one supply firm had looked at him sharply, and had
      then said with a contemptuous smile, &ldquo;Well, we are looking for ten
      thousand dollars ourselves, and will pay a commission to get it.&rdquo; Another
      had replied that they were short, or would be glad to oblige him, and as
      soon as Jack left the office had called to their bookkeeper to &ldquo;send
      MacFarlane his account, and say we have some heavy payments to meet, and
      will he oblige us with a check&rdquo;&mdash;adding to his partner&mdash;&ldquo;Something
      rotten in Denmark, or that young fellow wouldn't be looking around for a
      wad as big as that.&rdquo; A third merchant heard him out, and with some feeling
      in his voice said: &ldquo;I'm sorry for you, Breen&rdquo;&mdash;Jack's need of money
      was excuse enough for the familiarity&mdash;&ldquo;for Mr. MacFarlane thinks
      everything of you, he's told me so a dozen times&mdash;and there isn't any
      finer man living than Henry MacFarlane. But, just as your friend, let me
      tell you to stay out of the Street; it's no place for a young man like
      you. No&mdash;I don't mean any offence. If I didn't believe in you myself,
      I wouldn't say it. Take my advice and stay out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so footsore and heart-sore, his face haggard from hunger, for he had
      eaten nothing since breakfast, his purpose misunderstood, his own
      character assailed, his pride humiliated, and with courage almost gone, he
      strode into Peter's room and threw himself into a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter heard his step and entered from his bedroom, where he had finished
      dressing for dinner. The old fellow seemed greatly troubled. One glance at
      Jack's face told the story of the afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have done nothing, Jack?&rdquo; he asked in a despondent tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;have you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. Portman has gone to his place on Long Island, the others were
      out. Whom did you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some people we do business with; some of them laughed at me; some gave me
      advice; none of them had any money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected it. I don't think you are quite aware of what you ask, my dear
      boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I am not, but I am beginning to see. It is a new experience for
      me. If my father had wanted the money for the same purpose for which I
      want this, he would not have had to drive a mile from his house before he
      would have had it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father lived in a different atmosphere, my boy; in another age,
      really. In his environment money meant the education of children, the
      comfort of women, and the hospitalities that make up social life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, is not that true now, among decent people?&rdquo; protested Jack, his
      mind going back to some homes he remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;not generally&mdash;not here in New York. Money here means the
      right to exist on the planet; we fight for it as we do for our lives. Your
      own need of this ten thousand dollars proves it. The men I tried to find
      this afternoon have more than they need or ever will need; that's why I
      called on them. If I lost it, it wouldn't matter to them, but I would
      never hear the last of it all the same,&rdquo; and a shudder ran through him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter did not tell Jack that had Portman been at home and, out of
      friendship for him, had agreed to his request, he would have required the
      old fellow's name on a demand note for the amount of the loan; and that he
      would willingly have signed it, to relieve the boy's mind and ward off the
      calamity that threatened those he loved and those who loved him&mdash;not
      one cent of which, the Scribe adds in all positiveness, would the boy have
      taken had he known that the dear fellow had in any way pledged himself for
      its return.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some minutes Jack sat stretched out in his chair, his body aslant;
      Peter still beside him. All the events of the day and night passed in
      review before him; Garry's face and heavy breathing; McGowan's visit and
      defiance; Corinne's agonized shriek&mdash;even the remembrance made him
      creep&mdash;then Ruth's voice and her pleading look: &ldquo;The poor little boy.
      Jack. He has done no wrong&mdash;all his life he must be pointed at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He dragged himself to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go back to Ruth now, Uncle Peter. Thank you for trying. I know it
      is a wild goose chase, but I must keep moving. You will be out to-morrow;
      we bury poor Garry at one o'clock. I still have all day Monday.
      Good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come out and dine with me, my boy&mdash;we will go to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Ruth is worrying. I will get something to eat when I get home.
      Good-night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      Jack descended Peter's stairs one step at a time, Each seemed to plunge
      him the deeper into some pit of despair. Before he reached the bottom he
      began to realize the futility of his efforts. He began to realize, too,
      that both he and Ruth had been swept off their feet by their emotions.
      MacFarlane, the elder Breen, and now Peter, had all either openly
      condemned his course or had given it scant encouragement. There was
      nothing to go new but go home and tell Ruth. Then, after the funeral was
      over, he would have another talk with MacFarlane.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had reached the cool air of the street, and stood hesitating whether to
      cross the Square on his way to the ferry, or to turn down the avenue, when
      the door of Isaac Cohen's shop opened, and the little tailor put out his
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been waiting for you.&rdquo; he said in a measured voice. &ldquo;Come inside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack was about to tell him that he must catch a train, when something in
      the tailor's manner and the earnestness with which he spoke, made the
      young fellow alter his mind and follow him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little man led the way through the now darkened and empty shop,
      lighted by one gas jet&mdash;past the long cutting counter flanked by
      shelves bearing rolls of cloth and paper patterns, around the octagon
      stove where the irons were still warm, and through the small door which
      led into his private room. There he turned up a reading lamp, its light
      softened by a green shade, and motioning Jack to a seat, said abruptly,
      but politely&mdash;more as a request than a demand:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a question to ask you, and you will please tell me the truth. How
      much money do you want, and what do you want it for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack bit his lip. He wanted money, and he wanted it badly, but the tailor
      had no right to pry into his private affairs&mdash;certainly not in this
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that was something I was talking to Uncle Peter about,&rdquo; he rejoined
      stiffly. &ldquo;I suppose you must have overheard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did. Go on&mdash;how much money do you want, and what do you want
      it for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Mr. Cohen, I don't think I ought to bother you with my troubles.
      They wouldn't interest you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my dear young man, you will please not misunderstand me. You are
      very intelligent, and you are very honest, and you always say what is in
      your heart; I have heard you do it many times. Now say it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no mistaking the tailor's earnestness. It evidently was not mere
      curiosity which prompted him. It was something else. Jack wondered vaguely
      if the Jew wanted to turn money-lender at a big percentage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you want to know?&rdquo; he asked; more to gain time to fathom his
      purpose than with any intention of giving him the facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Isaac went to his desk, opened with great deliberation an ebony box, took
      out two cigars, offered one to Jack, leaned over the lamp until his own
      was alight, and took the chair opposite Jack's. All this time Jack sat
      watching him as a child does a necromancer, wondering what he meant to do
      next.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do I want to know, Mr. Breen? Well, I will tell you. I have loved Mr.
      Grayson for a great many years. When he goes out in the morning he always
      looks through the glass window and waves his hand. If I am not in sight,
      he opens the door and calls inside, 'Ah, good-morning, Isaac.' At night,
      when he comes home, he waves his hand again. I know every line in his
      face, and it is always a happy face. Once or twice a week he comes in
      here, and we talk. That is his chair&mdash;the one you are sitting in.
      Once or twice a week I go up and sit in his chair and talk. In all the
      years I have known him I have only seen him troubled once or twice. Then I
      asked him the reason, and he told me. To-day I heard you speak about some
      money you wanted, and then I saw that something had gone wrong. After I
      left he came downstairs and passed my window and did not look in. I
      watched him go up the street, he walked very slow, and his head was down
      on his chest. I did not like it. A little while ago he came back; I went
      out to meet him. I said, 'Mr. Grayson, what troubles you?' And he said&mdash;'Nothing,
      Isaac, thank you,' and went upstairs. That is the first time in all the
      years I know him that he answered me like that. So now I ask you once more&mdash;how
      much money do you want, and what do you want it for? When I know this,
      then I will know what troubles Mr. Grayson. There is always a woman or a
      sum of money at the bottom of every complication. Mr. Grayson never
      worries over either. I do not believe you do, but I have had many
      surprises in my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had heard him through without interruption. Most of it&mdash;especially
      Cohen's affection for Peter&mdash;he had known before. It was the last
      statement that roused him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you must know, Mr. Cohen&mdash;it is not for myself, but for a
      friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Jew smiled. He saw that the young man had told the truth. Peter's
      confidence in the boy, then, need not be shaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how much money do you need for your friend?&rdquo; His eyes were still
      reading Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, a very large sum.&rdquo; Jack did not like the cross-examination, but
      somehow he could not resent it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear young man, will you not tell me? If you buy a coat, do you
      not want to know the price? If you pay for an indiscretion, is not the sum
      named in the settlement?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten thousand dollars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no change in the Jew's face. The smile did not alter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is the money that Mr. Grayson tried to borrow for you, and
      failed? Is it not so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have tried everywhere to get it yourself? All the afternoon you
      have been at it?&rdquo; Still the same queer smile&mdash;one of confirmation, as
      if he had known it all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack nodded. Isaac was either a mind reader or he must have been
      listening at the keyhole when he poured out his heart to Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is what I thought when I saw you come in a little while ago,
      dragging your feet as if they were lead, and your eyes on the ground. The
      step and the eye, Mr. Breen, if you did but know it, make a very good
      commercial agency. When the eye is bright and the walk is quick, your
      customer has the money to pay either in his pocket or in his bank; when
      the step is dull and sluggish, you take a risk; when the eye looks about
      with an anxious glance and the step is stealthy, and then when you take
      the measure for the coat, both go out dancing, you may never get a penny.
      But that is only to tell you how I know,&rdquo; the tailor chuckled softly. &ldquo;And
      now one thing more&rdquo;&mdash;he was serious now&mdash;&ldquo;when must you have
      this ten thousand dollars?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before Monday night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In cash?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In cash or something I can get cash on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tailor rose from his seat with a satisfied air&mdash;he had evidently
      reached the point he had been striving for&mdash;laid the stump of his
      cigar on the edge of the mantel, crossed the room, fumbled in the side
      pocket of a coat which hung on a nail in an open closet; drew out a small
      key; sauntered leisurely to his desk, all the while crooning a tune to
      himself&mdash;Jack following his every movement, wondering what it all
      meant, and half regretting that he had not kept on to the ferry instead of
      wasting his time. Here he unlocked a drawer, took out a still smaller key&mdash;a
      flat one this time&mdash;removed some books and a small Barye bronze tiger
      from what appeared to be a high square table, rolled back the cloth,
      bringing into view an old-fashioned safe, applied the key and swung back a
      heavy steel door. Here, still crooning his song in a low key, dropping it
      and picking it up again as he moved&mdash;quite as does the grave-digger
      in &ldquo;Hamlet&rdquo;&mdash;he drew forth a long, flat bundle and handed it to Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take them, Mr. Breen, and put them in your inside pocket. There are ten
      United States Government bonds. If these Breen people will not lend you
      the amount of money you want, take them to Mr. Grayson's bank. Only do not
      tell him I gave them to you. I bought them yesterday and was going to lock
      them up in my safe deposit vault, only I could not leave my shop. Oh, you
      needn't look so scared. They are good,&rdquo; and he loosened the wrapper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack sprang from his seat. For a moment he could not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Mr. Cohen! Do you know I haven't any security to offer you, and that
      I have only my salary and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I asked you for any?&rdquo; Isaac replied with a slight shrug, a quizzical
      smile crossing his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, then, we will not talk about it. You are young&mdash;you are
      hard-working; you left a very rich home on Fifth Avenue to go and live in
      a dirty hotel in a country village&mdash;all because you were honest; you
      risked your life to save your employer; and now you want to go into debt
      to save a friend. Ah&mdash;you see, I know all about you, my dear Mr. John
      Breen. Mr. Grayson has told me, and if he had not, I could read your face.
      No&mdash;no&mdash;no&mdash;we will not talk about such things as cent per
      cent and security. No&mdash;no&mdash;I am very glad I had the bonds where
      I could get at them quick. There now&mdash;do you run home as fast as you
      can and tell your friend. He is more unhappy than anybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had his breath now and he had also made up his mind. Every drop of
      blood in his body was in revolt. Take money from a Jew tailor whom he had
      not seen half a dozen times; with whom he had no business relations or
      dealings, or even social acquaintance?
    </p>
    <p>
      He laid the bonds back on the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot take them, Mr. Cohen. I thank you most sincerely, but&mdash;no&mdash;you
      must not give them to me. I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isaac wheeled suddenly and drew himself up. His little mouse eyes were
      snapping, and his face fiery red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not take them! Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know&mdash;I can't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know!&rdquo; he cried angrily, but with a certain dignity. &ldquo;It is because I
      am a Jew. Not because I am a tailor&mdash;you have too much sense for that&mdash;but
      because I am a Jew!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Cohen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I know&mdash;I see inside of you. I read you just as if you
      were a page in a book. Who taught you to think that? Not your Uncle Peter;
      he loves me&mdash;I love him. Who taught you such nonsense?&rdquo; His voice had
      risen with every sentence. In his indignation he looked twice his size.
      &ldquo;Is not my money as good as that man Breen's&mdash;who insults you when
      you go to him?&mdash;and who laughed at you? Have I laughed at you? Does
      Mr. Grayson laugh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack tried to interrupt, but the tailor's words poured on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now let me tell you one thing more, Mr. John Breen. I do not give you
      the bonds. I give them to Mr. Grayson. Never once has he insulted me as
      you do now. All these years&mdash;fifteen years this winter&mdash;he has
      been my friend. And now when the boy whom he loves wants some money for a
      friend, and Mr. Grayson has none to give him, and I, who am Mr. Grayson's
      friend, come to help that boy out of his trouble, you&mdash;you&mdash;remember,
      you who have nothing to do with it&mdash;you turn up your nose and stop it
      all. Are you not ashamed of yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack's eyes blazed. He was not accustomed to be spoken to in that way by
      anybody; certainly not by a tailor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then give them to Uncle Peter,&rdquo; Jack flung back. &ldquo;See what he will say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I will not give them to your Uncle Peter. It will spoil everything
      with me if he knows about it. He always does things for me behind my back.
      He never lets me know. Now I shall do something for him behind his back
      and not let him know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are no buts! Listen to me, young man. I have no son; I have no
      grandchild; I live here alone&mdash;you see how small it is? Do you know
      why?&mdash;because I am happiest here. I know what it is to suffer, and I
      know what it is for other people to suffer. I have seen more misery in
      London in a year than you will see in your whole life. Those ten bonds
      there are of no more use to me than an extra coat of paint on that door. I
      have many more like them shut up in a box. Almost every day people come to
      me for money&mdash;sometimes they get it&mdash;oftener they do not. I have
      no money for beggars, or for idlers, or for liars. I have worked all my
      life, and shall to the end&mdash;and so must they. Now and then something
      happens like this. Now do you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Jack tried to speak. His anger was gone; the pathos in the Jew's
      voice had robbed him of all antagonism, but Cohen would allow no
      interruptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now one thing more before I let you speak, And then I am through. In
      all the years I have known Mr. Grayson, this is the first time I have ever
      been able to help him with the only thing I have that can help him&mdash;my
      money. If it was five times what you want, he should have it. Do you hear?
      Five times!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isaac threw himself into his chair and sat with his chin in his hand. The
      last few words had come in a dry, choking whisper&mdash;as if they had
      been pumped from the depths of his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack instinctively put out his hand and touched the Jew's knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you please forgive me, Mr. Cohen&mdash;and will you please listen to
      me. I won't tell you a lie. I did feel that way at first&mdash;I do not
      now. I will take the bonds, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart
      for them. You will never know how much good they will do; I have hardly
      slept since I knew I had to get this money. I am, perhaps, too tired to
      think straight, but you must do something for me&mdash;you must make it
      right with my own conscience. I want to sign something&mdash;give you
      something as security. I have only one thing in the world and that is some
      ore property my father left me in Maryland. At present it is worthless and
      may always be, but still it is all I have. Let me give you this. If it
      turns out to be of value you can take out your loan with interest and give
      me the rest; if it does not, I will pay it back as I can; it may be ten
      years or it may be less, but I will pay it if I live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isaac raised his head. &ldquo;Well, that is fair.&rdquo; His voice was again under
      control. &ldquo;Not for me&mdash;but for you. Yes, that is quite right for you
      to feel that way. Next week you can bring in the papers.&rdquo; He picked up the
      bonds. &ldquo;Now put these in your inside pocket and look out for them as you
      cross the ferry. Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX
    </h2>
    <p>
      Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl. No sense of elation
      over the money had possession of him. All his thoughts were on Isaac. What
      manner of man was this Jew? he kept asking himself in a sort of stunned
      surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk like a
      savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a child?
      Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and direct;
      reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles&mdash;as his
      friend would have done&mdash;as his own father might have done.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with the thought of Cohen's supreme instantaneous response there
      followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own
      narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his
      questionings of Peter's intimacy, and his frequent comments on their
      acquaintance&mdash;the one thing he could never understand in his beloved
      mentor. Again Isaac's words rang in his ears. &ldquo;Is it because I am a Jew?
      Who taught you such nonsense? Not your Uncle Peter&mdash;he loves me. I
      love him.&rdquo; And with them arose the vision of the man stretched to his full
      height, the light of the lamp glinting on his moist forehead, his
      bead-like eyes flashing in the rush of his anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the sacrifice both he and Ruth had just made, and it was now final,
      this no longer troubled him. He had already weighed for her every side of
      the question, taking especial pains to discuss each phase of the subject,
      even going so far as to disagree with MacFarlane's opinion as to the
      worthlessness of the ore lands. But the dear child had never wavered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&mdash;I don't care,&rdquo; she had answered with a toss of her head. &ldquo;Let
      the land go if there is no other way. We can get on without it, my
      darling, and these poor people cannot.&rdquo; She had not, of course, if the
      truth must be told, weighed any of the consequences of what their double
      sacrifice might entail, nor had she realized the long years of work which
      might ensue, or the self-denial and constant anxiety attending its
      repayment. Practical questions on so large a scale had been outside the
      range of her experience. Hers was the spirit of Joan of old, who reckoned
      nothing of value but her ideal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor can we blame her. When your cheeks are twin roses; your hair black as
      a crow's wing and fine as silk; and your teeth&mdash;not one missing&mdash;so
      many seed pearls peeping from pomegranate lips; when your blood goes
      skipping and bubbling through your veins; when at night you sleep like a
      baby, and at morn you spring from your bed in the joy of another day; when
      there are two strong brown hands and two strong arms, and a great, loving,
      honest heart every bit your own; and when, too, there are crisp autumn
      afternoons to come, with gold and brown for a carpet, and long winter
      evenings, the fire-light dancing on the overhead rafters; and 'way&mdash;'way&mdash;beyond
      this&mdash;somewhere in the far future there rises a slender spire holding
      a chime of bells, and beneath it a deep-toned organ&mdash;when this, I
      say, is, or will be, your own&mdash;the gold of the Indies is but so much
      tinkling brass, and Cleopatra's diadem a mere bauble with which to quiet a
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until he was nearing Corklesville that the sense of the money
      really came to him. He knew what it would mean to Ruth and what her eyes
      would hold of gladness and relief. Suddenly there sprang to his lips an
      unbidden laugh, a spontaneous overflow from the joy of his heart; the
      first he had uttered for days. Ruth should know first. He would take her
      in his arms and tell her to hunt in all his pockets, and then he would
      kiss her and place the package in her hands. And then the two would go to
      Corinne. It would be late, and she would be in bed, perhaps, but that made
      no difference. Ruth would steal noiselessly upstairs; past where Garry
      lay, the flowers heaped upon his coffin, and Corinne would learn the glad
      tidings before to-morrow's sun. At last the ghost which had haunted them
      all these days was banished; her child would be safe, and Corinne would no
      longer have to hide her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more the precious package became the dominant thought. Ten bonds!
      More than enough! What would McGowan say now? What would his Uncle Arthur
      say? He slipped his hand under his coat fondling the wrapper, caressing it
      as a lover does a long-delayed letter, as a prisoner does a key which is
      to turn darkness into light, as a hunted man a weapon which may save his
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      It did not take Jack many minutes we may be sure to hurry from the station
      to Ruth's home. There it all happened just as he had planned and schemed
      it should&mdash;even to the kiss and the hunting for the package of bonds,
      and Ruth's cry of joy, and the walk through the starlight night to
      Corinne's, and the finding her upstairs; except that the poor woman was
      not yet in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who gave it to you, Jack?&rdquo; Corinne asked in a tired voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend of Uncle Peter's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean Mr. Grayson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no outburst, no cry of gratitude, no flood of long-pent-up
      tears. The storm had so crushed and bruised this plant that many days must
      elapse before it would again lift its leaves from the mud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was very good of Mr. Grayson, Jack,&rdquo; was all she said in answer, and
      then relapsed into the apathy which had been hers since the hour when the
      details of her husband's dishonesty had dropped from his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor girl! she had no delusions to sustain her. She knew right from wrong.
      Emotions never misled her. In her earlier years she and her mother had
      been accustomed to look things squarely in the face, and to work out their
      own careers; a game of chance, it is true, until her mother's marriage
      with the elder Breen; but they had both been honest careers, and they had
      owed no man a penny. Garry had fought the battle for her within the last
      few years, and in return she had loved him as much as she was able to love
      anybody but she had loved him as a man of honor, not as a thief. Now he
      had lied to her, had refused to listen to her pleadings, and the end had
      come. What was there left, and to whom should she now turn&mdash;she
      without a penny to her name&mdash;except to her stepfather, who had
      insulted and despised her. She had even been compelled to seek help from
      Ruth and Jack; and now at last to accept it from Mr. Grayson&mdash;he
      almost a stranger. These were the thoughts which, like strange nightmares,
      swept across her tired brain, taking grewsome shapes, each one more
      horrible than its predecessor.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the funeral, next day, she presented the same impassive front. Breen
      and her mother rode with her in the carriage to the church, and Jack and
      Ruth helped her alight, but she might have been made of stone so far as
      she evinced either sorrow or interest in what was taking place about her.
      And yet nothing had been omitted by friend or foe expressive of the grief
      and heart-felt sorrow the occasion demanded. Holker Morris sent a wreath
      of roses with a special letter to her, expressing his confidence in and
      respect for the man he had brought up from a boy. A committee was present
      from the Society of Architects to which Garry belonged; half a dozen of
      his old friends from the Magnolia were present, Biffy among them; the
      village Council and the Board of Church Trustees came in a body, and even
      McGowan felt it incumbent upon him to stand up during the service and
      assume the air of one who had been especially bereft. Nor were the notices
      in the country and city papers wanting in respect. &ldquo;One of our most
      distinguished citizens&mdash;a man who has reached the topmost round of
      the ladder,&rdquo; etc., etc., one editorial began.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only when the funeral was over, and she was once more at home, that
      she expressed the slightest concern. Then she laid her hand in Peter's and
      threw back her heavy crepe veil: &ldquo;You have saved me from disgrace, Mr.
      Grayson,&rdquo; she said, in a low, monotonous voice, &ldquo;and my little boy as
      well. I try to think that Garry must have been out of his mind when he
      took the money. He would not listen to me, and he would not tell me the
      truth. Jack is going to pay it back to-morrow, and nobody will ever know
      that my husband did wrong; but I couldn't let you go away without thanking
      you for having saved us. My stepfather wouldn't help&mdash;nobody would
      help but you. I don't know why you did it. It seems so strange. I had
      given up all hope when Jack came back last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter sat perfectly still, his hand on her wrist, where he had placed it
      to show by a kindly touch his sympathy for her. Not knowing what her lips
      would tell, he had begun to pat the back of her black glove when she
      started to speak, as one would quiet a child who pours out its troubles,
      but he stopped in amazement as she proceeded. He had not loaned her a
      dollar, nor had Jack, as he knew, succeeded in getting a penny, unless by
      a miracle he had met some one on the train who had come to his rescue.
    </p>
    <p>
      What did the poor woman mean? Disgrace! Trouble! Garry taking money, and
      Jack paying it back on Monday! The horror of her husband's sudden death
      had undoubtedly turned her mind, distorting some simple business
      transaction into a crime, or she would not be thanking him for something
      that he had never done. This talk of Jack's could only have been a ruse to
      keep up her spirits and give her false strength until she had passed
      through the agonizing ordeal of the funeral&mdash;he accepting all her
      delusions as true&mdash;as one does when an insane person is to be coaxed
      back into a cell. These thoughts went whirling through his mind, as Peter
      watched her face closely, wondering what would be his course. He had not
      met her often, yet he could see that she was terribly changed. He noticed,
      too, that all through the interview she had not shed a tear. Yes&mdash;there
      was no question that her mind was unbalanced. The best plan would be to
      bring the interview to an end as quickly as possible, so she should not
      dwell too long on her sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I have done anything to help you, my dear lady,&rdquo; he said with gentle
      courtesy, rising from his chair and taking her hand again, &ldquo;or can do
      anything for you in the future, I shall be most happy, and you must
      certainly let me know. And now, may I not ask you to go upstairs and lie
      down. You are greatly fatigued&mdash;I assure you I feel for you most
      deeply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his mind was still disturbed. Ruth and Jack wondered at his quiet as
      he sat beside them on the way back to MacFarlane's&mdash;gazing out of the
      carriage window, his clean-shaven, placid face at rest, his straight thin
      lips close shut. He hardly spoke until they reached the house, and then it
      was when he helped Ruth alight. Once inside, however, he beckoned Jack,
      and without a word led him alone into MacFarlane's study&mdash;now almost
      dismantled for the move to Morfordsburg&mdash;and closed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Minott has just told me the most extraordinary thing, Jack&mdash;an
      unbelievable story. Is she quite sane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack scanned Peter's face and read the truth. Corinne had evidently told
      him everything. This was the severest blow of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She supposed you knew, sir;&rdquo; answered Jack quietly, further concealment
      now being useless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knew what?&rdquo; Peter was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What she told you, sir,&rdquo; faltered Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man threw up his hands in horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! You really mean to tell me, Jack, that Minott has been stealing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack bent his head and his eyes sought the floor. He could hardly have
      been more ashamed had he himself been the culprit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless my soul! From whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The church funds&mdash;he was trustee. The meeting is to-morrow, and it
      would all have come out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A great light broke over Peter&mdash;as when a window is opened in a
      darkened room in which one has bees stumbling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have walked the streets trying to beggar yourself, not to help
      MacFarlane but to keep Minott out of jail!&rdquo; Amazement had taken the place
      of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was my friend, sir&mdash;and there are Corinne and the little boy. It
      is all over now. I have the money&mdash;that is, I have got something to
      raise it on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who gave it to you?&rdquo; He was still groping, blinded by the revelations,
      his gray eyes staring at Jack, his voice trembling, beads of perspiration
      moistening his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isaac Cohen. He has given me ten Government bonds. They are in that
      drawer behind you. He overheard what I said to you yesterday about wanting
      some money, and was waiting for me when I went downstairs. He gave them to
      me because he loved you, he said. I am to give him my ore property as
      security, although I told him it was of no value.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter made a step forward, stretching out a hand as if to steady himself.
      His face grew white then suddenly flushed. His breath seemed to have left
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Cohen did this!&rdquo; he gasped&mdash;&ldquo;and you for Minott! Why&mdash;why&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack caught him in his arms, thinking he was about to fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! No! I'm all right,&rdquo; he cried, patting Jack's shoulder. &ldquo;It's you!&mdash;you&mdash;YOU,
      my splendid boy! Oh!&mdash;how I love you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      The following morning Jack walked into Arthur Breen's private office while
      his uncle was reading his mail, and laid the package containing the ten
      bonds on his desk. So far as their borrowing capacity was concerned, he
      could have walked up the marble steps of any broker's office or bank on
      either side of the street&mdash;that is, wherever he was known, and he was
      still remembered by many of them&mdash;thrust the package through the
      cashier's window, and walked down again with a certified check for their
      face value in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the boy had other ends in view. Being human, and still smarting under
      his uncle's ridicule and contempt, he wanted to clear his own name and
      character; being loyal to his friend's memory and feeling that Garry's
      reputation must be at least patched up&mdash;and here in Breen's place and
      before the man who had so bitterly denounced it; and being above all
      tender-hearted and gallant where a woman, and a sorrowing one, was
      concerned, he must give Corinne and the child a fair and square start in
      the house of Breen, with no overdue accounts to vex her except such petty
      ones as a small life insurance and a few uncollected commissions could
      liquidate.
    </p>
    <p>
      These much-to-be-desired results could only be attained when the senior
      member of the firm was made acquainted with the fact that, after all,
      Garry's debts could be paid and his reputation saved. The money must,
      therefore, be borrowed of Arthur Breen &amp; Co. His uncle would know then
      beyond doubt; his axiom being that the only thing that talked loud enough
      ever to make him listen was &ldquo;money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was therefore with a sense of supreme satisfaction, interwoven with
      certain suppressed exuberance born of freedom and self-reliance, that
      Jack, in answer to Breen's &ldquo;What's this?&rdquo; when his eyes rested on the
      bundle of bonds, replied in an off-hand but entirely respectful manner:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten United States Government bonds, sir; and will you please give me a
      check drawn to my order for this amount?&rdquo; and he handed the astounded
      broker the slip of paper McGowan had given him, on which was scrawled the
      total of the overdue vouchers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen slipped off the rubber band, spread out the securities as a lady
      opens a fan, noted the title, date, and issue, and having assured himself
      of their genuineness, asked in a confused, almost apologetic way, as he
      touched a bell to summon the cashier:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you get these? Did MacFarlane give them to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;a friend,&rdquo; answered Jack casually, and without betraying a trace
      of either excitement or impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On what?&rdquo; snapped Breen, something of his old dictatorial manner
      asserting itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On my word,&rdquo; replied Jack, with a note of triumph, which he could not
      wholly conceal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door opened and the cashier entered. Breen handed him the bonds, gave
      instructions about the drawing of the check, and turned to Jack again. He
      was still suffering from amazement, the boy's imperturbable manner being
      responsible for most of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And does this pay Minott's debts?&rdquo; he asked in a more conciliatory tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every dollar,&rdquo; replied Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen looked up. Where had the boy got this poise and confidence, he asked
      himself, as a flush of pride swept through him; after all, Jack was of his
      own blood, his brother's son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I suppose now that it's you who will be doing the walking instead of
      Minott's creditors?&rdquo; Breen inquired with a frown that softened into a
      smile as he gazed the longer into Jack's calm eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, for a time,&rdquo; rejoined Jack in the same even, unhurried voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clerk brought in the slip of paper, passed it to his employer, who
      examined it closely, and who then affixed his signature.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you get any more of that kind of stuff and want help in the new work,
      let me know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Jack, folding up the precious scrap and slipping it
      into his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      Breen waited until Jack had closed the door, pulled from a pigeon-hole a
      bundle of papers labelled Maryland Mining Company, touched another button
      summoning his stenographer, and said in a low voice to himself:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I have it! Something is going on in that ore property. I'll write
      and find out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Board of Church Trustees met, as customary, on Monday night, but there
      was no business transacted except the passing of a resolution expressing
      its deep regret over the loss of &ldquo;our distinguished fellow-townsman, whose
      genius has added so much to the beautifying of our village, and whose
      uprightness of character will always be,&rdquo; etc., etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither Jack nor McGowan, nor any one representing their interests, was
      present. A hurried glance over Garry's check and bank-books showed that
      the money to pay McGowan's vouchers&mdash;the exact sum&mdash;had been
      drawn from the fund and deposited to Garry's personal credit in his own
      bank in New York. Former payments to McGowan had been made in this way.
      There was therefore no proof that this sum had been diverted into
      illegitimate channels.
    </p>
    <p>
      McGowan was paid that same Monday afternoon, Jack bringing the papers to
      the contractor's office, where they were signed in the presence of Murphy
      and his clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so the matter was closed, each and every one concerned being rejoiced
      over the outcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Minott (it was 'Mr.' now) had a big stack of money over at his
      stepfather's bank,&rdquo; was Murphy's statement to a group around a table in
      one of the bar-rooms of the village. &ldquo;He was in a big deal, so Mac thinks,
      and didn't want to haul any of it out. So when he died Mr. Breen never
      squawked&mdash;just went over and told the old man that Mac wanted the
      money and to fork out; and he did, like a good one. I seen the check, I
      tell ye. Oh! they're all in together. Mr. Breen's kin to them New York
      folks, and so is Mrs. Minott. He's her father, I hear. I think Mac shot
      off his mouth too quick, and I told him so, but he was so het up he
      couldn't keep still. Why, them fellers has got more money than they can
      throw away. Mac sees his mistake now. Heard him tell Mr. Breen that Mr.
      Minott was the whitest man he ever knowed; and you bet yer life he's
      right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nor was Murphy's eulogium the only one heard in the village. Within a week
      after the funeral a committee was appointed to gather funds for the
      placing of a stained-glass window in the new church in memory of the young
      architect who had designed and erected it; with the result that Holker
      Morris headed the subscription list, an example which was followed by many
      of the townspeople, including McGowan and Murphy and several others of
      their class, as well as various members of the Village Council, together
      with many of Garry's friends in New York, all of which was duly set forth
      in the county and New York papers; a fact which so impressed the head of
      the great banking firm of Arthur Breen &amp; Co. that he immediately sent
      his personal check for a considerable amount, desiring, as he stated at a
      club dinner that same night, to pay some slight tribute to that brilliant
      young fellow, Minott, who, you know, married Mrs. Breen's daughter&mdash;a
      lovely girl, brought up in my own house, and who has now come home again
      to live with us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter listened attentively while Jack imparted these details, a peculiar
      smile playing about the corners of his eyes and mouth, his only comment at
      the strangeness of such posthumous honors to such a man, but he became
      positively hilarious when Jack reached that part in the narrative in which
      the head of the house of Breen figured as chief contributor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you mean to tell me, Jack,&rdquo; he roared, &ldquo;that Breen has pushed himself
      into poor Minott's stained-glass window, with the saints and the gold
      crowns, and&mdash;oh, Jack, you can't be serious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what the Rector tells me, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Jack&mdash;forgive me, my boy, but I have never in all my life heard
      anything so delicious. Don't you think if Holker spoke to the artist that
      Mr. Iscariot, or perhaps the estimable Mr. Ananias, or Mr. Pecksniff, or
      Uriah Heep might also be tucked away in the background?&rdquo; And with this the
      old fellow, in spite of his sympathy for Jack and the solemnity of the
      occasion, threw back his head and laughed so long and so heartily that
      Mrs. McGuffey made excuse to enter the room to find out what it was all
      about.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the subletting of Garry's house and the shipping of his furniture&mdash;that
      which was not sold&mdash;to her step-father's house, Jack's efforts on
      behalf of his dead friend and his family came to a close. Ruth helped
      Corinne pack her personal belongings, and Jack found a tenant who moved in
      the following week. Willing hands are oftenest called upon, and so it
      happened that the two lovers bore all the brunt of the domestic upheaval.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their own packing had long since been completed; not a difficult matter in
      a furnished house; easy always to Ruth and her father, whose nomadic life
      was marked by constant changes. Indeed, the various boxes, cases, crates,
      and barrels containing much of the linen, china, and glass, to say nothing
      of the portieres, rugs and small tables, and the whole of Ruth's bedroom
      furniture, had already been loaded aboard a box car and sent on its way to
      Morfordsburg, there to await the arrival of the joyous young girl, whose
      clear brain and competent hands would bring order out of chaos, no matter
      how desolate the interior and the environment.
    </p>
    <p>
      For these dainty white hands with their pink nails and soft palms, so
      wonderfully graceful over teapot or fan, could wield a broom or even a
      dust-pan did necessity require. Ruth in a ball gown, all frills and
      ruffles and lace, was a sight to charm the eye of any man, but Ruth in
      calico and white apron, her beautiful hair piled on top of her still more
      beautiful head; her skirts pinned up and her dear little feet pattering
      about, was a sight not only for men but for gods as well. Jack loved her
      in this costume, and so would you had you known her. I myself, old and
      wrinkled as I am, have never forgotten how I rapped at the wrong door one
      morning&mdash;the kitchen door&mdash;and found her in that same costume,
      with her arms bare to the elbows and covered with flour, where she had
      been making a &ldquo;sally lunn&rdquo; for daddy. Nor can I forget her ringing laugh
      as she saw the look of astonishment on my face, or my delight when she
      ordered me inside and made me open the oven door so that she could slide
      in the finished product without burning her fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The packing up of their own household impedimenta complete, there came a
      few days of leisure&mdash;the first breathing spell that either MacFarlane
      or Jack, or Ruth, too, for that matter, had had for weeks. MacFarlane, in
      view of the coming winter&mdash;a long and arduous one, took advantage of
      the interim and went south, to his club, for a few days' shooting&mdash;a
      rare luxury for him of late years. Jack made up his mind to devote every
      one of his spare hours to getting better acquainted with Ruth, and that
      young woman, not wishing to be considered either neglectful or selfish,
      determined to sacrifice every hour of the day and as much of the night as
      was proper and possible to getting better acquainted with Jack; and the
      two had a royal time in the doing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack, too, had another feeling about it all. It seemed to him that he had
      a debt of gratitude&mdash;the rasping word had long since lost its edge&mdash;to
      discharge; and that he owed her every leisure hour he could steal from his
      work. He had spent days and nights in the service of his friends, and had,
      besides, laid the burden of their anxieties upon her. He would pay her in
      return twice as many days of gladness to make up for the pain she had so
      cheerfully borne. What could he do to thank her?&mdash;how discharge the
      obligation? Every hour he would tell her, and in different ways&mdash;by
      his tenderness, by his obedience to her slightest wish, anticipating her
      every want&mdash;how much he appreciated her unselfishness, and how much
      better, if that were possible, he loved her for her sacrifice. Nor was
      there, when the day came, any limit to his devotion or to her enjoyment.
      There were rides over the hills in the soft September mornings&mdash;Indian
      summer in its most dreamy and summery state; there were theatre parties of
      two and no more; when they sat in the third row in the balcony, where it
      was cheaper, and where, too, they wouldn't have to speak to anybody else.
      There were teas in Washington Square, where nobody but themselves and
      their hostess were present, as well as other unexpected outings, in which
      all the rest of the world was forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house, too, was all their own. Nobody upstairs; nobody downstairs but
      the servants; even the emptiness of daddy's room, so grewsome in the old
      days, brought a certain feeling of delight. &ldquo;Just you and me,&rdquo; as they
      said a dozen times a day to each other. And then the long talks on that
      blessed old sofa with its cushions&mdash;(what a wonderful old sofa it
      was, and how much it had heard); talks about when she was a girl&mdash;as
      if she had ever passed the age; and when he was a boy; and of what they
      both thought and did in that blissful state of innocence and inexperience.
      Talks about the bungalow they would build some day&mdash;that bungalow
      which Garry had toppled over&mdash;and how it would be furnished; and
      whether they could not persuade the landlord to sell them the dear sofa
      and move it out there bodily; talks about their life during the coming
      winter, and whether she should visit Aunt Felicia's&mdash;and if so,
      whether Jack would come too; and if she didn't, wouldn't it be just as
      well for Jack to have some place in Morfordsburg where he could find a bed
      in case he got storm-bound and couldn't get back to the cabin that same
      night. All kinds and conditions and sorts of talks that only two lovers
      enjoy, and for which only two lovers can find the material.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes she thought he might be too lonely and neglected at the
      log-cabin. Then she would make believe she was going to ask daddy to let
      them be married right away, insisting that two rooms were enough for them,
      and that she herself would do the washing and ironing and the cooking, at
      which Jack would laugh over the joy of it all, conjuring up in his mind
      the pattern of apron she would wear and how pretty her bare arms would be
      bending over the tub, knowing all the time that he would no more have
      allowed her to do any one of these things than he would have permitted her
      to chop the winter's wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Most of these day dreams, plots, and imaginings were duly reported by
      letter to Miss Felicia to see what she thought of them all. For the dear
      lady's opposition had long since broken down. In these letters Ruth poured
      out her heart as she did to no one except Jack; each missive interspersed
      with asides as to how dear Jack was, and how considerate, and how it would
      not be a very long time before she would soon get the other half of the
      dear lady's laces, now that daddy and Jack (the boy had been given an
      interest in the business) were going to make lots of money on the new work&mdash;to
      all of which Miss Felicia replied that love in a garret was what might be
      expected of fools, but that love in a log-cabin could only be practised by
      lunatics.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was toward the close of this pre-honey-moon&mdash;it lasted only ten
      days, but it was full moon every hour and no clouds&mdash;when, early one
      morning&mdash;before nine o'clock, really&mdash;a night message was handed
      to Jack. It had been sent to the brick office, but the telegraph boy,
      finding that building closed and abandoned, had delivered it to Mrs.
      Hicks, who, discovering it to be sealed, forwarded it at once, and by the
      same hand, to the MacFarlane house, known now to everybody as the
      temporary headquarters, especially in the day time, of the young
      superintendent who was going to marry the daughter&mdash;&ldquo;and there ain't
      a nicer, nor a better, nor a prettier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On this morning, then, the two had planned a day in the woods back of the
      hills; Ruth's mare was to be hooked up to a hired buggy, and such comforts
      as a bucket of ice, lettuce sandwiches thin as wafers, a cold chicken, a
      spirit lamp, teapot, and cups and saucers, not to mention a big shawl for
      my sweetheart to sit on, and another smaller one for her lovely shoulders
      when the cool of the evening came on, were to be stowed away under the
      seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That telegram is from Aunt Felicia, I know,&rdquo; said Ruth. &ldquo;She has set her
      heart on my coming up to Geneseo, but I cannot go, Jack. I don't want to
      be a minute away from you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack had now broken the seal and was scanning the contents. Instantly his
      face grew grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;it's not from Aunt Felicia,&rdquo; he said in a thoughtful tone, his
      eyes studying the despatch. &ldquo;I don't know whom it's from; it is signed T.
      Ballantree; I never heard of him before. He wants me to meet him at the
      Astor House to-day at eleven o'clock. Some business of your father's, I
      expect&mdash;see, it's dated Morfordsburg. Too bad, isn't it, blessed&mdash;but
      I must go. Here, boy&rdquo;&mdash;this to the messenger, who was moving out of
      the door&mdash;&ldquo;stop at the livery stable as you go by and tell them I
      won't want the horse and wagon, that I'm going to New York. All in a
      life-time, my blessed&mdash;but I'm dreadfully sorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you MUST go? Isn't it mean, Jack&mdash;and it's such a lovely day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but it can't be helped. What are you going to do with the
      sandwiches and chicken and things? And you had so much trouble making
      them. And you will be lonely, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I shall keep them till you come back, and we'll have a lovely feast
      at home,&rdquo; she said with a light laugh in her effort to hide her feelings.
      &ldquo;Oh, no, I shan't be lonely. You won't be gone long, Jack, will you,
      dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope not.&rdquo; His mind must no longer rest on the outing. There was work
      to do for Ruth as well as himself. His play time had come to a sudden end;
      the bell had rung and recess was over. He looked at his watch; there was
      just time to catch the train.
    </p>
    <p>
      She followed him to the door and kissed her hand as he swung down the path
      and through the gate, and watched him until he had disappeared behind the
      long wall of the factory; then she went in, put away the sandwiches and
      chicken, and the teapot and the cups and saucers, and emptied the ice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, the day was spoiled, she said to herself&mdash;part of it anyway; but
      the night would come, and with it Jack would burst in with news of all he
      had seen and done, and they would each have an end of the table; their
      last dinner in the old home, where everything on which her eyes rested
      revived some memory of their happiness. But then there would be other
      outings at Morfordsburg, and so what mattered one day when there were so
      many left? And with this thought her tears dried up and she began to sing
      again as she busied herself about the house&mdash;bursting into a refrain
      from one of the operas she loved, or crooning some of the old-time
      melodies which her black mammy had taught her when a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      But now for Jack and what the day held for him of wonders and surprises.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some pessimistic wiseacre has said that all the dire and dreadful things
      in life drop out of a clear sky; that it is the unexpected which is to be
      feared, and that the unknown bridges are the ones in which dangers lurk
      and where calamity is to be feared.
    </p>
    <p>
      The optimistic Scribe bites his derisive thumb at such ominous prophecies.
      Once in a while some rain does fall, and now and then a roar of thunder,
      or sharp slash of sleet will split the air during our journey through
      life, but the blue is always above, and the clouds but drifting ships that
      pass and are gone. In and through them all the warm, cheery sun fights on
      for joyous light and happy endings, and almost always wins.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time the unexpected took shape in the person of T. Ballantree, from
      Morfordsburg&mdash;a plain, direct, straight-to-the-point kind of a man,
      whom Jack found in the corridor of the Astor House with his eyes on the
      clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very prompt, Mr. Breen,&rdquo; he said in clear-cut tones, &ldquo;so am I.
      What I wanted to see you about is just this: You own some ore property
      three miles east of the Maryland Mining Company's lay-out. Am I right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you are right,&rdquo; answered Jack with a comprehensive glance which
      began at the speaker's black derby hat, traversed his suit of store
      clothes, and ended in a pair of boots which still showed some traces of
      yellow clay, as if their wearer had been prospecting the day before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are there any encumbrances on the property&mdash;any mortgages or liens
      not yet recorded? I don't mean taxes; I find they have been paid,&rdquo;
       continued Ballantree.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack shifted his seat so he could get a better view of the speaker's face,
      and said in answer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; said the man with entire frankness, &ldquo;we understand that the
      Maryland Mining Company have an option on it. If that is so, I'll stop
      where I am. We don't care to buck up against Breen &amp; Co.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Jack, now convinced of the man's sincerity; &ldquo;no&mdash;it's
      free and clear except for a loan of ten thousand dollars held by a friend,
      which can be paid off at any time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ballantree ducked his head in token of his satisfaction over the statement
      and asked another question&mdash;this time with his eyes straight on Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it for sale&mdash;now&mdash;for money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Jack's turn to focus his gaze. This was the first time any one had
      asked that question in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that depends on what it is wanted for, Mr. Ballantree,&rdquo; laughed
      Jack. He had already begun to like the man. &ldquo;And perhaps, too, on who
      wants it. Is it for speculation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ballantree laughed in return. &ldquo;No&mdash;not a square foot of it. I am the
      general manager of the Guthrie Steel Company with head-quarters here in
      New York. We have been looking for mineral up in that section of the
      State, and struck yours. I might as well tell you that I made the borings
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you an expert?&rdquo; asked Jack. The way people searched his title,
      examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property without
      permission was, to say the least, amusing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been at it thirty years,&rdquo; replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all
      doubt on the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a low-grade ore, you know,&rdquo; explained Jack, feeling bound to
      express his own doubts of its value.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it's a high-grade ore,&rdquo; returned Ballantree with some positiveness;
      &ldquo;that is, it was when we got down into it. But I'm not here to talk about
      percentage&mdash;that may come in later. I came to save Mr. Guthrie's
      time. I was to bring you down to see him if you were the man and
      everything was clean, and if you'll go&mdash;and I wouldn't advise you to
      stay away&mdash;I'll meet you at his office at twelve o'clock sharp;
      there's his card. It isn't more than four blocks from here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack took the card, looked on both sides of it, tucked it in his inside
      pocket, and said he would come, with pleasure. Ballantree nodded
      contentedly, pulled a cigar from his upper breast pocket, bit off one end,
      slid a match along his trousers until it burst into flame, held it to the
      unbitten end until it was a-light, blew out the blaze, adjusted his derby
      and with another nod to Jack&mdash;and the magic words&mdash;&ldquo;Twelve
      sharp&rdquo;&mdash;passed out into Broadway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten minutes later&mdash;perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run&mdash;Jack
      bounded into Peter's bank, and slipping ahead of the line of depositors,
      thrust his overheated face into the opening. There he gasped out a bit of
      information that came near cracking the ostrich egg in two, so wide was
      the smile that overspread Peter's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;really! You don't say so! Telegraphed you? Who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Mr. Ballantree,&rdquo; panted Jack. &ldquo;I have just left him at the Astor
      House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never heard of him. Look out, my boy&mdash;don't sign anything until
      you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he is only the general manager. It's a Mr. Guthrie&mdash;Robert A.
      Guthrie&mdash;who wants it. He sent Mr. Ballantree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Robert Guthrie! The banker! That's our director; that's the man I told
      you of. I gave him your address. Go and see him by all means and tell him
      everything. Talk just as you would to me. One of the best men in the
      Street. Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack. Well&mdash;well&mdash;this
      does look like business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please&mdash;&rdquo; interpolated Peter to
      an insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded out. &ldquo;Now
      your book&mdash;thank you&mdash;And Jack&rdquo;&mdash;this over the hat of the
      depositor, his face a marvel of delight&mdash;&ldquo;come to my rooms at four&mdash;wait
      for me&mdash;I'll be there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Out again and around the block; anything to kill time until the precious
      hour should arrive. Lord!&mdash;how the minutes dragged. The hands of the
      old clock of Trinity spire must be stuck together. Any other day it would
      take him at least half an hour to walk up Wall Street, down Broadway to
      the Battery and back again&mdash;now ten minutes was enough. Would the
      minute hand never climb up the face to the hour hand and the two get
      together at twelve, and so end his impatience. He wished now he had
      telegraphed to Ruth not to expect him until the late afternoon train. He
      thought he would do it now. Then he changed his mind. No; it would be
      better to await the result of his interview. Yet still the clock dragged
      on, and still he waited for the magic hour. Ten minutes to twelve&mdash;five&mdash;then
      twelve precisely&mdash;but by this time he was closeted inside Mr.
      Guthrie's private office.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter also found the hours dragging. What could it all mean? he kept
      asking himself as he handed back the books through his window, his eyes
      wandering up to the old-fashioned clock. Robert Guthrie the banker&mdash;a
      REAL banker&mdash;had sent for the boy&mdash;Guthrie, who never made a too
      hurried move. Could it be possible that good fortune was coming to Jack?&mdash;that
      he and Ruth&mdash;that&mdash;Ah! old fellow, you nearly made a mistake
      with the amount of that check! No&mdash;there was no use in supposing. He
      would just wait for Jack's story.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he reached home he was still in the same overwrought, anxious state&mdash;hoping
      against hope. When would the boy come? he asked himself a hundred times as
      he fussed about his room, nipping off the dead leaves from his geraniums,
      drawing the red curtains back; opening and shutting the books, only to
      throw himself into his chair at last. Should he smoke until four?&mdash;should
      he read? What a fool he was making of himself! It was astonishing that one
      of his age should be so excited over a mere business proposition&mdash;really
      not a proposition at all, when he came to think of it&mdash;just an
      ordinary question asked. He must compose himself. It was quite absurd for
      him to go on this way. But would the boy NEVER come? It was four o'clock
      now&mdash;or would be in ten minutes, and&mdash;and&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes!
    </p>
    <p>
      He sprang toward the door and caught the young fellow in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! such good news! Mr. Guthrie's bought the property!&rdquo; roared Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had made one long spring from the sidewalk up three flights of steps to
      the old-fashioned door, but he still had breath to gasp the glad tidings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bought!&mdash;Who?&mdash;Not Guthrie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I am to sign the papers to-morrow. Oh!&mdash;Uncle Peter, I am
      half crazy with delight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurrah,&rdquo; shouted Peter. &ldquo;HURRAH, I say! This IS good news! Well!&mdash;Well!&rdquo;
       He was still bending over him, his eyes blinking in his joy, scurries of
      irradiating smiles chasing each other over his face. Never had the old
      gentleman been in such a state.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how much, Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will there be enough to pay Isaac's ten thousand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More!&rdquo; Jack was nearly bursting, but he still held in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty thousand?&rdquo; This came timidly, fearing that it was too much, and
      yet hoping that it might be true.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More!&rdquo; The strain on Jack was getting dangerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-five thousand?&rdquo; Peter's voice now showed that he was convinced
      that this sum was too small.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More! Go on, Uncle Peter! Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty-five thousand, Jack?&rdquo; It was getting hot; certainly this was the
      limit. Was there ever such luck?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&mdash;and five thousand more! Forty thousand dollars and one-fifth
      interest in the output! Just think what Ruth will say. I've just sent her
      a telegram. Oh!&mdash;what a home-coming!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then, with Peter drawn up beside him, his face radiant and his eyes
      sparkling with joy, he poured out the story of the morning. How he had
      begun by telling Mr. Guthrie of his own and Mr. MacFarlane's opinion of
      the property, as he did not want to sell anything he himself considered
      worthless. How he had told him frankly what Peter had said of his&mdash;Mr.
      Guthrie's&mdash;fairness and honesty; how he was at work for his
      prospective father-in-law, the distinguished engineer of whom Mr. Guthrie
      had no doubt heard&mdash;at which the gentleman nodded. How this property
      had been given him by his father, and was all he had in the world except
      what he could earn; how he already owed ten thousand dollars and had
      pledged the property as part payment, and how, in view of these facts, he
      would take any sum over ten thousand dollars that Mr. Guthrie would give
      him, provided Mr. Guthrie thought it was worth that much.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am buying, not selling, your land, young man,&rdquo; the banker had said.
      &ldquo;I know it, sir, and I am willing to take your own figures,&rdquo; Jack replied&mdash;at
      which Mr. Guthrie had laughed in a kindly way, and had then called in Mr.
      Ballantree and another man how the three had then talked in a corner, and
      how he had heard Mr. Guthrie say, &ldquo;No, that is not fair&mdash;add another
      five thousand and increase the interest to one-fifth&rdquo;; whereupon the two
      men went out and came back later with a letter in duplicate, one of which
      Mr. Guthrie had signed, and the other which he, Jack, signed&mdash;and
      here was Mr. Guthrie's letter to prove it. With this Jack took out the
      document and laid it before Peter's delighted eyes; adding that the deeds
      and Isaac's release were to be signed in the morning, and that Mr. Guthrie
      had sent a special message by him to the effect that he very much wished
      Mr. Grayson would also be present when the final transfers would be signed
      and the money paid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whereupon the Scribe again maintains&mdash;and he is rubbing his hands
      with the joy of it all as he does it&mdash;that there was more sunshine
      than clouds in this particular Unexpected, and that if all the boys in the
      world were as frank and sincere as young Jack Breen, and all the grown-ups
      as honest as old Robert Guthrie, the REAL banker, the jails would be empty
      and the millennium knocking at our doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peter had drunk in every word of the story, bowing his head, fanning out
      his fingers, or interrupting with his customary &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; whenever
      some particular detail seemed to tend toward the final success.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then, the story over, there came the part that Peter never forgot;
      that he has told me a dozen times, and always with the same trembling tear
      under the eyelids, and the same quivering of his lower lip.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack had drawn his chair nearer the old gentleman, and had thrown one arm
      over the shoulder of his dearest friend in the world. There was a moment's
      silence as they sat there, and then Jack began. &ldquo;There is something I want
      you to do for me, Uncle Peter,&rdquo; he said, drawing his arm closer till his
      own fresh cheek almost touched the head of the older man. &ldquo;Please, don't
      refuse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Refuse, my dear boy! I am too happy to-day to refuse anything. Come, out
      with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to give you half of this money. I love you better than any one
      in this world except Ruth, and I want you to have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter threw up his hands and sprang to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&mdash;You want to&mdash;Why, Jack! Are you crazy! Me! My dear boy,
      it's very lovely of you to wish to do it, but just think. Oh, you dear
      Jack! No!&mdash;no, no!&rdquo; He was beating the air now deprecatingly with his
      outspread fingers as he strode around the room, laughing short laughs in
      his effort to keep back the tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack followed him in his circuit, talking all the while, until he had
      penned the old gentleman in a corner between the open desk and the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Uncle Peter&mdash;think what you have done for me! Do you suppose
      for one moment that I don't know that it was you and not I who sold the
      property? Do you think Mr. Guthrie would have added that five thousand
      dollars to the price if he hadn't wanted to help you as well as me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five thousand dollars, my dear Jack, is no more to Robert Guthrie than a
      ferry ticket is to you or me. He gave you the full price because you
      trusted to his honesty and told him the truth, and he saw your
      inexperience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;it was YOU he was thinking of, I tell you,&rdquo; protested Jack, with
      eager emphasis. &ldquo;He would never have sent Ballantree for me had you not
      talked to him&mdash;and it has been so with everything since I knew you.
      You have been father, friend, everybody to me. You gave me Ruth and my
      work. Everything I am I owe to you. You must&mdash;you SHALL have half of
      this money! Ruth and I can be married, and that is all we want, and what
      is left I can put into our new work to help Mr. MacFarlane. Please, Uncle
      Peter!&mdash;we will both be so much happier if we know you share it with
      us.&rdquo; Here his voice rose and a strain of determination rang through it.
      &ldquo;And, by George!&mdash;Uncle Peter, the more I think of it, the more I am
      convinced that it is fair. It's yours&mdash;not mine. I WILL have it that
      way&mdash;you are getting old, and you need it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter broke into a laugh. It was the only way he could keep down the
      tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a dear boy you are, Jack,&rdquo; he said, backing toward the sofa and
      regaining his seat. &ldquo;You've got a heart as big as a house, and I'm proud
      of you, but no&mdash;not a penny of your money. Think a moment! Your
      father didn't leave the property to me&mdash;not any part of it&mdash;he
      left it to you, you spendthrift! When I get too old to work I am going up
      to Felicia's and pick out an easy-chair and sit in a corner and dry up
      gradually and be laid away in lavender. No, my lad, not a penny! Gift
      money should go to cripples and hypochondriacs, not to spry old gentlemen.
      I would not take it from my own father's estate when I was your age, and I
      certainly won't take it now from you. I made Felicia take it all.&rdquo; Jack
      opened his eyes. He had often wondered why Peter had so little and she so
      much. &ldquo;Oh, yes, nearly forty years ago! But I have never regretted it
      since! And you must see how just it was, for there wasn't enough for two,
      and Felicia was a woman. No&mdash;be very careful of gift money, my boy,
      and be very careful, also, of too much of anybody's money&mdash;even your
      own. What makes me most glad in this whole affair is that Guthrie didn't
      give you a million&mdash;that might have spoilt you. This is just enough.
      You and Ruth can start square. You can help Henry&mdash;and you ought to,
      he has been mighty good to you. And, best of all, you can keep at work.
      Yes&mdash;that's the best part of it&mdash;that you can keep at work. Go
      right on as you are; work every single day of your life, and earn your
      bread as you have done ever since you left New York, and, one thing more,
      and don't you ever forget it: Be sure you take your proper share of fun
      and rest as you go. Eight hours' work, eight hours' play, eight hours'
      sleep&mdash;that's the golden rule and the only one to live by. Money will
      never get its grip on you if you keep this up. This fortune hasn't yet
      tightened its fingers around your throat, or you would never have come up
      here to give me half of it&mdash;and never let it! Money is your servant,
      my boy, not your master. And now go home and kiss Ruth for me, and tell
      her that I love her dearly. Wait a moment. I will go with you as far as
      Isaac's. I am going to tell him the good news. Then I'll have him measure
      me for a coat to dance at your wedding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the Unexpecteds are not yet over. There was still another, of quite a
      different character, about to fall&mdash;and out of another clear sky, too&mdash;a
      sort of April-shower sky, where you get wet on one side of the street and
      keep dry on the other. Jack had the dry side this time, and went on his
      way rejoicing, but the head of the house of Breen caught the downpour, and
      a very wet downpour it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      It all occurred when Jack was hurrying to the ferry and when he ran into
      the senior member of the firm, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Jack!&mdash;the very man I wanted to see,&rdquo; cried Breen. &ldquo;I was going
      to write you. There's something doing up in that ore country. Better drop
      in to-morrow, I may be able to handle it for you, after all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry, sir, but it's not for sale,&rdquo; said Jack, trying to smother his
      glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; demanded Breen bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have sold it to Mr. Robert Guthrie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guthrie! The devil you say!&mdash;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day. The final papers are signed to-morrow. Excuse me, I must catch my
      boat&mdash;&rdquo; and away he went, his cup now brimming over, leaving Breen
      biting his lips and muttering to himself as he gazed after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guthrie!&mdash;My customer! Damn that boy&mdash;I might have known he
      would land on his feet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Jack kept on home to his sweetheart, most of the way in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down in the little room all this time in the rear of the tailor's shop the
      two old men sat talking. Peter kept nothing back; his lips quivering again
      and another unbidden tear peeping over the edge of his eyelid when he told
      of Jack's offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A dear boy, Isaac&mdash;yes, a dear boy. He never thinks with his head&mdash;only
      with his heart. Never has since I knew him. Impulsive, emotional,
      unpractical, no doubt&mdash;and yet somehow he always wins. Queer&mdash;very
      queer! He comes upstairs to me and I start out on a fool's errand. He goes
      down to you, and you hand him out your money. He gives it all away the
      next day, and then we have Guthrie doubling the price. Queer, I tell you,
      Isaac&mdash;extraordinary, that's what it is&mdash;almost uncanny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Jew threw away his cigar, rested his short elbows on the arms of his
      chair, and made a basket of his hands, the tips of all his fingers
      touching.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you are wrong, my good friend. It is not extraordinary and it is not
      uncanny. It is very simple&mdash;exceedingly simple. Nobody runs over a
      child if he can help it. Even a thief will bring you back your pocket-book
      if you trust him to take care of it. It is the trusting that does it. Few
      men, no matter how crooked, can resist the temptation of reaching, if only
      for a moment, an honest man's level.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Peter's coat was finished in time for the wedding&mdash;trust Isaac for
      that&mdash;and so was his double-breasted white waistcoat&mdash;he had not
      changed the cut in twenty years; and so were his pepper-and-salt trousers
      and all his several appointments, little and big, even to his polka-dot
      scarf of blue silk, patent-leather shoes and white gaiters. Quite the
      best-dressed man in the room, everybody said, and they of all the people
      in the world should have known.
    </p>
    <p>
      And the wedding!
    </p>
    <p>
      And all that went before it, and all that took place on that joyous day;
      and all that came after that happiest of events!
    </p>
    <p>
      Ruth and Jack, with Peter's covert endorsement, had wanted to slip into
      the village church some afternoon at dusk, with daddy and Peter and Miss
      Felicia, and one or two more, and then to slip out again and disappear.
      MacFarlane had been in favor of the old Maryland home, with Ruth's
      grandmother in charge, and the neighbors driving up in mud-encrusted
      buggies and lumbering coaches, their inmates warmed by roaring fires and
      roaring welcomes&mdash;fat turkeys, hot waffles, egg-nogg, apple-toddy,
      and the rest of it. The head of the house of Breen expressed the opinion
      (this on the day Jack gave his check for the bonds prior to returning them
      to Isaac, who wouldn't take a cent of interest) that the ceremony should
      by all means take place in Grace Church, after which everybody would
      adjourn to his house on the Avenue, where the wedding-breakfast would be
      served, he being nearest of kin to the groom, and the bride being
      temporarily without a home of her own&mdash;a proposition which, it is
      needless to say, Jack declined on the spot, but in terms so courteous and
      with so grand and distinguished an air that the head of the house of Breen
      found his wonder increasing at the change that had come over the boy since
      he shook the dust of the Breen home and office from his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Grande Dame of Geneseo did not agree with any of these makeshifts.
      There would be no Corklesville wedding if she could help it, with gaping
      loungers at the church door; nor would there be any Maryland wedding with
      a ten-mile ride over rough roads to a draughty country-house, where your
      back would freeze while your cheeks burned up; nor yet again any city
      wedding, with an awning over the sidewalk, a red carpet and squad of
      police, with Tom, Dick, and Harry inside the church, and Harry, Dick and
      Tom squeezed into an oak-panelled dining-room at high noon with every
      gas-jet blazing.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she did not waste many seconds coming to this conclusion. Off went a
      telegram, after hearing the various propositions, followed by a letter,
      that might have melted the wires and set fire to the mail-sack, so fervid
      were the contents.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! My dear Ruth, you will be married in my house and the breakfast
      will be in the garden. If Peter and your father haven't got any common
      sense, that's no reason why you and Jack should lose your wits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This, of course, ended the matter. No one living or dead had ever been
      found with nerve enough to withstand Felicia Grayson when she had once
      made up her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then, again, there was no time to lose in unnecessary discussions.
      Were not Ruth and her father picnicking in a hired villa, with half their
      household goods in a box-car at Morfordsburg?&mdash;and was not Jack still
      living in his two rooms at Mrs. Hicks's? The only change suggested by the
      lovers was in the date of the wedding, Miss Felicia having insisted that
      it should not take place until November, &ldquo;FOUR WHOLE WEEKS AWAY.&rdquo; But the
      old lady would not budge. Four weeks at least, she insisted, would be
      required for the purchase and making of the wedding clothes, which, with
      four more for the honeymoon (at this both Jack and Ruth shouted with
      laughter, they having determined on a honeymoon the like of which had
      never been seen since Adam and Eve went to housekeeping in the Garden).
      These eight weeks, continued the practical old lady, would be required to
      provide a suitable home for them both; now an absolute necessity, seeing
      that Mr. Guthrie had made extensive contracts with MacFarlane, which, with
      Jack's one-fifth interest in the ore banks was sure to keep Jack and
      MacFarlane at Morfordsburg for some years to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      So whizz went another telegram&mdash;this time from Jack&mdash;there was
      no time for letters these days&mdash;stopping all work on the nearly
      completed log cabin which the poor young superintendent had ordered, and
      which was all he could afford, before the sale of the ore lands. But then
      THAT seemed ages and ages ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't tell me what I want, sir,&rdquo; roared Mr. Golightly at the waiter, in
      &ldquo;Lend Me Five Shillings,&rdquo; when he brought a crust of bread and cheese and
      a pickle with which to entertain Mrs. Phobbs; Golightly in the meantime
      having discovered a purse full of sovereigns in the coat the waiter had
      handed him by mistake. &ldquo;Don't tell me what I said, sir. I know what I
      said, sir! I said champagne, sir, and plenty of it, sir!&mdash;turkeys,
      and plenty of them!
    </p>
    <p>
      Burgundy&mdash;partridges&mdash;lobsters&mdash;pineapple punch&mdash;pickled
      salmon&mdash;everything! Look sharp, Be off!&rdquo; (Can't you hear dear Joe
      Jefferson's voice, gentle reader, through it all?)
    </p>
    <p>
      And now listen to our proud Jack, with the clink of his own gold in his
      own pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say? A six by nine log hut, with a sheet-iron stove in one
      corner and a cast-iron bedstead in another, and a board closet, and a
      table and two chairs&mdash;and this, too, for a princess of quality and
      station? Zounds, sirrah!&mdash;&rdquo; (Holker Morris was the &ldquo;Sirrah&rdquo;)&mdash;&ldquo;I
      didn't order anything of the kind. I ordered a bungalow all on one floor&mdash;that's
      what I ordered&mdash;with a boudoir and two bedrooms, and an extra one for
      my honored father-in-law, and still another for my thrice-honored uncle,
      Mr. Peter Grayson, when he shall come to stay o' nights; and porches front
      and back where my lady's hammock may be slung: and a fireplace big enough
      to roll logs into as thick around as your body and wide enough to warm
      every one all over; and a stable for my lady's mare, with a stall for my
      saddle-horse. Out upon you, you Dago!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Presto, what a change! Away went the completed roof of the modest cabin
      and down tumbled the sides. More post-holes were dug; more trenches
      excavated; more great oaks toppled over to be sliced into rafters, joists
      and uprights; more shingles&mdash;two carloads; more brick; more plaster;
      more everything, including nails, locks, hinges, sash; bath-tubs&mdash;two;
      lead pipe, basins, kitchen range&mdash;and so the new bungalow was begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither was there any time to be lost over the invitations. Miss Felicia,
      we may be sure, prepared the list. It never bothered her head whether the
      trip to Geneseo&mdash;and that, too, in the fall of the year, when early
      snows were to be expected&mdash;might prevent any of the invited guests
      from witnessing the glad ceremony. Those who loved Ruth she knew would
      come even if they had to be accompanied by St. Bernard dogs with kegs of
      brandy tied to their necks to get them across the glaciers, including
      Uncle Peter, of course; as would also Ruth's dear grandmother, who was
      just Miss Felicia's age, and MacFarlane's saintly sister Kate, who had
      never taken off her widow's weeds since the war, and two of her girl
      friends, with whom Ruth went to school, and who were to be her
      bridesmaids.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then there were those who might or might not struggle through the drifts,
      if there happened to be any&mdash;the head of the house of Breen, for
      instance, and Mrs. B., and lots and lots of people of whom Jack had never
      heard, aunts and uncles and cousins by the dozens; and lots and lots of
      people of whom Ruth had never heard, of the same blood relationship; and
      lots more of people from Washington Square and Murray Hill, who loved the
      young people, and Peter, and his outspoken sister, all of whom must be
      invited to the ceremony; including the Rector and his wife from
      Corklesville, and&mdash;(no&mdash;that was all from Corklesville) together
      with such selected inhabitants of Geneseo as dame Felicia permitted inside
      of her doors. As for the several ambassadors, generals, judges,
      dignitaries, attaches, secretaries, and other high and mighty folks
      forming the circle of Miss Felicia's acquaintance, both here and abroad,
      they were only to receive &ldquo;announcement&rdquo; cards, just as a reminder that
      Miss Grayson of Geneseo was still in and of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hardest nut of all to crack was given to Jack. They had all talked it
      over, the dear girl saying &ldquo;of course he shall come, Jack, if you would
      like to have him.&rdquo; Jack adding that he should &ldquo;never forget his
      generosity,&rdquo; and MacFarlane closing the discussion by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go slow, Jack. I'd say yes in a minute. I am past all those foolish
      prejudices, but it isn't your house, remember. Better ask Peter&mdash;he'll
      tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peter pursed his mouth when Jack laid the matter before him in Peter's
      room the next day, tipped his head so far on one side that it looked as if
      it might roll off any minute and go smash, and with an arching of his
      eyebrows said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but why NOT invite Isaac? Has anybody ever been as good to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never any one, Uncle Peter&mdash;and I think as you do, and so does Ruth
      and Mr. MacFarlane, but&mdash;&rdquo; The boy hesitated and looked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what?&rdquo; queried Peter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;there's Aunt Felicia. You know how particular she is; and she
      doesn't know how splendid Mr. Cohen has been, and if he came to the
      wedding she might not like it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Felicia is not going to be married, my boy,&rdquo; remarked Peter, with a
      dry smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack laughed. &ldquo;Yes&mdash;but it's her house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and your wedding. Now go down and ask Mr. Cohen yourself.
      You'll send him a card, of course, but do more than that. Call on him
      personally and tell you want him to come, and why&mdash;and that I want
      him, too. That will please him still more. The poor fellow lives a great
      deal alone. Whether he will come or not, I don't know&mdash;but ask him.
      You owe it to yourself as much as you do to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you don't think Aunt Felicia will&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hang Felicia! You do what you think is right; it does not matter what
      Felicia or anybody else thinks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack wheeled about and strode downstairs and into the back room where the
      little man sat at his desk looking over some papers. Isaac's hand was out
      and he was on his feet before Jack had reached his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&mdash;Mr. Millionaire. And so you have come to tell me some more good
      news. Have you sold another mine? I should have looked out to see whether
      your carriage did not stop at my door; and now sit down and tell me what I
      can do for you. How well you look, and how happy. Ah, it is very good to
      be young!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you can do for me is this, Mr. Cohen. I want you to come to our
      wedding&mdash;will you? I have come myself to ask you,&rdquo; said Jack in all
      sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So! And you have come yourself.&rdquo; He was greatly pleased; his face showed
      it. &ldquo;Well, that is very kind of you, but let me first congratulate you.
      Yes&mdash;Mr. Grayson told me all about it, and how lovely the young lady
      is. And now tell me, when is your wedding?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where will it be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At Uncle Peter's old home up at Geneseo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, at that grand lady's place&mdash;the magnificent Miss Grayson.&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,
      but it is only one night away. I will see that you are taken care of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little man paused and toyed with the papers on his desk. His black,
      diamond-pointed eyes sparkled and an irrepressible smile hung around his
      lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you very much, Mr. Breen&mdash;and thank your young lady too. You
      are very kind and you are very polite. Yes&mdash;I mean it&mdash;very
      polite. And you are sincere in what you say; that is the best of all. But
      I cannot go. It is not the travelling at night&mdash;that is nothing. You
      and your lady would be glad to see me and that would be worth it all, but
      the magnificent Miss Grayson, she would not be glad to see me. You see, my
      dear young man&rdquo;&mdash;here the smile got loose and scampered up to his
      eyelids&mdash;&ldquo;I am a most unfortunate combination&mdash;oh, most
      unfortunate&mdash;for the magnificent Miss Grayson. If I was only a tailor
      I might be forgiven; if I was just a Jew I might be forgiven; but when I
      am both a tailor and a Jew&rdquo;&mdash;here the irrepressible went to pieces in
      a merry laugh&mdash;&ldquo;don't you see how impossible it is? And you&mdash;you,
      Mr. Breen! She would never forgive you. 'My friend, Mr. Cohen,' you would
      have to say, and she could do nothing. She must answer that she is most
      glad to see me&mdash;or she might NOT answer, which would be worse. And it
      is not her fault. You can't break down the barriers of centuries in a day.
      No&mdash;no&mdash;I will not compromise you in that way. Let me come to
      see you some time when it is all over, when your good uncle can come too.
      He will bring me; perhaps. And now give my best respects to the lady&mdash;I
      forget her name, and say to her for me, that if she is as thoughtful of
      other people as you are, you deserve to be a very happy couple.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack shook the little man's hand and went his way. He was sorry and he was
      glad. He was also somewhat ashamed in his heart. It was not altogether
      himself who had been thoughtful of other people. But for Peter, perhaps,
      he might never have paid the visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the blissful day approached Geneseo was shaken to its centre, the
      vibrations reaching to the extreme limits of the town. Not only was
      Moggins who drove the village 'bus and tucked small packages under the
      seat on the sly, overworked, but all the regular and irregular express
      companies had to put on extra teams. Big box, little box, band box,
      bundle, began to pour in, to say nothing of precious packages that nobody
      but &ldquo;Miss Grayson&rdquo; could sign for. And then such a litter of cut paper and
      such mounds of pasteboard boxes poked under Miss Felicia's bed, so she
      could defend them in the dead of night, and with her life if necessary,
      each one containing presents, big and little; the very biggest being a
      flamboyant service of silver from the head of the house of Breen and his
      wife, and the smallest a velvet-bound prayer-book from Aunt Kate with
      inter-remembrances from MacFarlane (all the linen, glass, and china); from
      Peter (two old decanters with silver coasters); from Miss Felicia (the
      rest of her laces, besides innumerable fans and some bits of rare
      jewelry); besides no end of things from the Holker Morrises and the
      Fosters and dozens of others, who loved either Ruth or Jack, or somebody
      whom each one or both of them loved, or perhaps their fathers and mothers
      before them. The Scribe has forgotten the list and the donors, and really
      it is of no value, except as confirmation of the fact that they are still
      in the possession of the couple, and that none of them was ever exchanged
      for something else nor will be until the end of time.
    </p>
    <p>
      One curious-looking box, however, smelling of sandalwood and dried
      cinnamon, and which arrived the day the ceremony took place, is worthy of
      recall, because of the universal interest which it excited. It was marked
      &ldquo;Fragile&rdquo; on the outside, and was packed with extraordinary care. Miss
      Felicia superintended the unrolling and led the chorus of &ldquo;Oh, how
      lovely!&rdquo; herself, when an Imari jar, with carved teakwood stand, was
      brought to light. So exquisite was it in glaze, form, and color that for a
      moment no one thought of the donor. Then their curiosity got the better of
      them and they began to search through the wrappings for the card. It
      wasn't in the box; it wasn't hidden in the final bag; it wasn't&mdash;here
      a bright thought now flashed through the dear lady's brain&mdash;down went
      her shapely hand into the depths of the tall jar, and up came an envelope
      bearing Ruth's name and enclosing a card which made the grande dame catch
      her breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Isaac Cohen! What&mdash;the little tailor!&rdquo; she gasped out. &ldquo;The Jew!
      Well, upon my word&mdash;did you ever hear of such impudence!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isaac would have laughed the harder could he have seen her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jack caught up the vase and ran with it to Ruth, who burst out with
      another: &ldquo;Oh, what a beauty!&rdquo; followed by &ldquo;Who sent it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gentleman journeyman tailor, my darling,&rdquo; said Jack, with a flash of
      his eye at Peter, his face wreathed in smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with the great day&mdash;a soft November day&mdash;summer had lingered
      on a-purpose&mdash;came the guests: the head of the house of Breen and his
      wife&mdash;not poor Corinne, of course, who poured out her heart in a
      letter instead, which she entrusted to her mother to deliver; and Holker
      Morris and Mrs. Morris, and the Fosters and the Granthams and Wildermings
      and their wives and daughters and sons, and one stray general, who stopped
      over on his way to the West, and who said when he entered, looking so very
      grand and important, that he didn't care whether he had been invited to
      the ceremony or not, at which Miss Felicia was delighted, he being a
      major-general on the retired list, and not a poor tailor who&mdash;no, we
      won't refer to that again; besides a very, VERY select portion of the dear
      lady's townspeople&mdash;the house being small, as she explained, and Miss
      MacFarlane's intimates and acquaintances being both importunate and
      numerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with the gladsome hour came the bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      None of us will ever forget her. Not only was she a vision of rare
      loveliness, but there was in her every glance and movement that
      stateliness and grace that poise and sureness of herself that marks the
      high-born woman the world over when she finds herself the cynosure of all
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      All who saw her descend Miss Felicia's stairs held their breath in
      adoration: Not a flight of steps at all, but a Jacob's ladder down which
      floated a company of angels in pink and ivory&mdash;one all in white, her
      lovely head crowned by a film of old lace in which nestled a single rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      On she came&mdash;slowly&mdash;proudly&mdash;her slippered feet touching
      the carpeted steps as daintily as treads a fawn; her gown crinkling into
      folds of silver about her knees, one fair hand lost in a mist of gauze,
      the other holding the blossoms which Jack had pressed to his lips&mdash;until
      she reached her father's side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear daddy,&rdquo; I heard her whisper as she patted his sleeve with her
      fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! but it was a proud day for MacFarlane. I saw his bronzed and
      weather-beaten face flush when he caught sight of her in all her gracious
      beauty; but it was when she reached his side and laid her hand on his arm,
      as he told me afterward, that the choke came. She was so like her mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two swept past me into the old-fashioned parlor, now a bower of roses,
      where Jack and Peter and Felicia, with the elect, waited their coming, and
      I followed, halting at the doorway. From this point of vantage I peered in
      as best I could over and between the heads of the more fortunate, but I
      heard all that went on; the precise, sonorous voice of the bishop&mdash;(catch
      Miss Felicia having anybody but a bishop); the clear responses&mdash;especially
      Jack's&mdash;as if he had been waiting all his life to say those very
      words and insisted on being heard; the soft crush of satin as Ruth knelt;
      the rustle of her gown when she regained her feet; the measured words:
      &ldquo;Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder&rdquo;&mdash;and then the
      outbreak of joyous congratulations. As I looked in upon them all&mdash;old
      fellow as I am&mdash;listening to their joyous laughter; noting the
      wonderful toilettes, the festoons and masses of flowers; watching Miss
      Felicia as she moved about the room (and never had I seen her more the
      &ldquo;Grande Dame&rdquo; than she was that day), welcoming her guests with a
      graciousness that must have opened some of their eyes&mdash;even fat,
      red-faced Arthur Breen, perspiring in pearl-colored gloves and a morning
      frock coat that fitted all sides of him except the front, and Mrs. Arthur
      in moire antique and diamonds, were enchanted; noting, too, Peter's
      perfectly appointed dress and courtly manners, he taking the whole
      responsibility of the occasion on his own shoulders&mdash;head of the
      house, really, for the time; receiving people at the door; bowing them out
      again; carrying glasses of punch&mdash;stopping to hobnob with this or
      that old neighbor: &ldquo;Ah, my dear Mrs. Townehalle, how young and well you
      look; and you tell me this is your daughter. I knew your mother, my dear,
      when she was your age, and she was the very prettiest girl in the county.
      And now let me present you to a most charming woman, Mrs. Foster, of New
      York, who&mdash;&rdquo; etc., etc. Or greeting some old gray-head with: &ldquo;Well,
      well&mdash;of course it is&mdash;why, Judge, I haven't seen you since you
      left the bench which you graced so admirably,&rdquo; etc, etc.; watching, too,
      Ruth and Jack as they stood beneath a bower of arching roses&mdash;(Miss
      Felicia had put it together with her own hands)&mdash;receiving the
      congratulations and good wishes of those they knew and those they did not
      know; both trying to remember the names of strangers; both laughing over
      their mistakes, and both famished for just one kiss behind some door or
      curtain where nobody could see. As I looked on, I say, noting all these
      and a dozen other things, it was good to feel that there was yet another
      spot in this world of care where unbridled happiness held full sway and
      joy and gladness were contagious.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was in the tropical garden, with its frog pond, climbing roses in
      full bloom, water-lilies, honeysuckle, and other warm-weather shrubs and
      plants (not a single thing was a-bloom outside, even the chrysanthemums
      had been frost-bitten), that the greatest fun took place. That was a sight
      worth ten nights on the train to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the wedding breakfast was spread, the bride's table being placed
      outside that same arbor where Jack once tried so hard to tell Ruth he
      loved her (how often have they laughed over it since); a table with covers
      for seven, counting the two bridesmaids and the two gallants in puffy
      steel-gray scarfs and smooth steel-gray gloves. The other guests&mdash;the
      relations and intimate friends who had been invited to remain after the
      ceremony&mdash;were to find seats either at the big or little tables
      placed under the palms or beneath the trellises of jasmine, or upon the
      old porch overlooking the tropical garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Jack's voice that finally caught my attention. I could not see
      clearly on account of the leaves and tangled vines, but I could hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we want you, and you must.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, please, do,&rdquo; pleaded Ruth; there was no mistaking the music of her
      tones, or the southern accent that softened them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what nonsense&mdash;an old duffer like me!&rdquo; This was Peter's voice&mdash;no
      question about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We won't any of us sit down if you don't,&rdquo; Jack was speaking now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it will spoil everything,&rdquo; cried Ruth. &ldquo;Jack and I planned it long
      ago; and we have brought you out a special chair; and see your card&mdash;see
      what it says: 'Dear Uncle Peter&mdash;'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down with you young people at your wedding breakfast!&rdquo; cried Peter,
      &ldquo;and&mdash;&rdquo; He didn't get any farther. Ruth had stopped what was to
      follow with a kiss. I know, for I craned my neck and caught the flash of
      the old fellow's bald head with the fair girl's cheek close to his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then&mdash;just as you want it&mdash;but there's the Major and
      Felicia and your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But they did not want any of these people, Ruth cried with a ringing
      laugh; didn't want any old people; they just wanted their dear Uncle
      Peter, and they were going to have him; a resolution which was put to vote
      and carried unanimously, the two pink bridesmaids and the two steel-gray
      gentlemen voting the loudest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The merriment ceased when Ruth disappeared and came back in a dark-blue
      travelling dress and Jack in a brown suit. We were all in the doorway, our
      hands filled with rose petals&mdash;no worn-out slippers or hail of rice
      for this bride&mdash;when she tried to slip through in a dash for the
      carriage, but the dear lady caught and held her, clasping the girl to her
      heart, kissing her lips, her forehead, her hands&mdash;she could be very
      tender when she loved anybody; and she loved Ruth as her life; Peter and
      her father going ahead to hold open the door where they had their kisses
      and handshakes, their blessings, and their last words all to themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The honeymoon slipped away as do all honeymoons, and one crisp, cool
      December day a lumbering country stage containing two passengers struggled
      up a steep hill and stopped before a long, rambling building nearing
      completion. All about were piles of partly used lumber, broken bundles of
      shingles, empty barrels, and abandoned mortar beds. Straight from the low
      slanting roof with its queer gables, rose a curl of blue smoke, telling of
      comfort and cheer within. Back of it towered huge trees, and away off in
      the distance swept a broad valley hazy in the morning light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Jack&mdash;what a love!&rdquo; cried one passenger&mdash;she had alighted
      with a spring, her cheeks aglow with the bracing mountain air, and was
      standing taking it all in. &ldquo;And, oh&mdash;see the porch!&mdash;and the
      darling windows and the dear little panes of glass! And, Jack&mdash;&rdquo; she
      had reached the open door now, and was sweeping her eyes around the
      interior&mdash;&ldquo;Oh!&mdash;oh!&mdash;what a fireplace!&mdash;and such ducky
      little shelves&mdash;and the flowers, and the table and the big easy
      chairs and rugs! ISN'T it lovely!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then the two, hand in hand, stepped inside and shut the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE END. <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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