“Have you heard from your father lately?” she asked as the young man sprang into the seat at her side.

He started.

“No, not in a week.  Why, is there anything the matter with him?”

“Of course not.”  She touched him lightly upon the arm.  “You knew that Mr. Bell, cashier of the National Penn Bank, had died?”

“No.  Is that so!  That’s too bad.”  Then suddenly Deacon sat erect.  “By George!  Father is one of the assistant cashiers there.  I wonder if he’ll be promoted.”  He turned upon the girl.  “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

She waited a bit before replying.

“No—­not exactly that.”

“Not exactly——­What do you mean?”

“Do you know how keen Mr. Doane, I mean Junior’s father is on rowing?  Well,”—­as Deacon nodded,—­“have you thought how he might feel toward the father of the man who is going to sit in his son’s seat in the race to-morrow?  Would it make him keen to put that father in Mr. Bell’s place?”

Deacon’s exclamation was sharp.

“Who asked you to put that thought in my mind?”

“Ah!” Her hand went out, lying upon his arm.  “I was afraid you were going to take it that way.  Mother was talking this afternoon.  I thought you should know.  As for Junior Doane, I’m frank to admit I’m awfully keen about him.  But that isn’t why I came here.  I remember how close you and your father used to be.  I—­I thought perhaps you’d thank me, if—­if——­”

“What you mean is that because I have beaten Doane out for stroke, his father may be sore and not promote my father at the bank.”

“There’s no ‘may’ about it.  Mr. Doane will be sore.  He’ll be sore at Junior, of course.  But he’ll be sore secretly at you, and where there is a question of choice of cashier between your father and another man—­even though the other man has not been so long in the bank—­how do you think his mind will work; I mean, if you lose?  Of course, if you can win, then I am sure everything will be all right.  You must——­”

“If I can win!  What difference would that——­” He stopped suddenly.  “I’ve caught what you mean.”  He laughed bitterly.  “Parental jealousy.  All right!  All right!”

“Jim, I don’t want you——­”

“Don’t bother.  I’ve heard all I can stand, Jane.  Thank you.”  He lurched out of the car and hurried away.

She called him.  No answer.  Waiting a moment, the girl sighed, touched the self-starter and drove away.

Deacon had no idea of any lapse of time between the departure of the car and himself in his cot prepared for sleep—­with, however, no idea that sleep would come.  His mood was pitiable.  His mind was a mass of whirling thoughts in the midst of which he could recognize pictures of his boyhood, a little boy doing many things—­with a hand always tucked within the fingers of a great big man who knew everything, who could do everything, who could always explain all the mysteries of the big, strange, booming world.  There were many such pictures, pictures not only relating to boyhood, but to his own struggle at Baliol, to the placid little home in Philadelphia and all that it had meant, all that it still meant, to his father, to his mother, to him, Any act of his that would bring sorrow or dismay or the burden of defeated hope to that home!