Mr. Prohack knew nothing of this meditated revenge, did not suspect it.  If he had suspected it, he might have felt less compassion than, on this masculine evening with the unusual port, he did in fact feel.  For he was very sorry for Charlie.  He longed to tell him about the fortune, and to exult with him in the fortune, and to pour, as it were, the fortune into his lap.  He did not care a fig, now, about advisable precautions.  He did not feel the slightest constraint at the prospect of imparting the tremendous and gorgeous news to his son.  He had no desire to reflect upon the proper method of telling.  He merely and acutely wanted to tell, so that he might see the relief and the joyous anticipation on his son’s enigmatic and melancholy face.  But he could not tell because it had been tacitly agreed with his wife that he should not tell in her absence.  True, he had given no verbal promise, but he had given something just as binding.

“Nothing exciting to-day, I suppose,” he said, when the silence had begun to distress him in his secret glee.

“No,” Charlie replied.  “I got particulars of an affair at Glasgow, but it needs money.”

“What sort of an affair?”

“Oh!  Rather difficult to explain.  Buying and selling.  Usual thing.”

“What money is needed?”

“I should say three hundred or thereabouts.  Might as well be three thousand so far as I’m concerned.”

“Where did you hear of it?”

“Club.”

Charlie belonged to a little club in Savile Place where young warriors told each other what they thought of the nature of society.

Mr. Prohack drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp, and then said: 

“I expect I could let you have three hundred.”

“You couldn’t!”

“I expect I could.”  Mr. Prohack had never felt so akin to a god.  It seemed to him that he was engaged in the act of creating a future, yea, a man.  Charlie’s face changed.  He had been dead.  He was now suddenly alive.

“When?”

“Well, any time.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Charlie looked at his watch.

“Well, I’m much obliged,” he said.

* * * * *

III

Mr. Prohack had brought a new cheque-book from the Bank.  It lay in his hip-pocket.  He had no alternative but to write out a cheque.  Three hundred pounds would nearly exhaust his balance, but that did not matter.  He gave Charlie the cheque.  Charlie offered no further information concerning the “affair” for which the money was required.  And Mr. Prohack did not choose to enquire.  Perhaps he was too proud to enquire.  The money would probably be lost.  And if it were lost no harm would be done.  Good, rather, for Charlie would have gained experience.  The lad was only a child, after all.

The lad ran upstairs, and Mr. Prohack sat solitary in delightful meditation.  After a few minutes the lad re-appeared in hat and coat.  Mr. Prohack thought that he had heard a bag dumped in the hall.