Wetherbee tossed the tag aside.  “You got twenty-five dollars a couple of days ago!” he bawled out suddenly.

Starratt was surprised into silence.  Old Wetherbee was sometimes given to half-audible and impersonal grumblings, but this was the first time he had ever gone so far as to voice a specific objection to an appeal for funds.

“What do you think this is?” Wetherbee went on in a tone loud enough to be heard by all the office force.  “The Bank of England?...  I’ve got something else to do besides advance money every other day to a bunch of joy-riding spendthrifts.  In my day a young man ordered his expenditures to suit his pocketbook.  We got our salary once a month and we saw to it that it lasted...  What’s the matter—­somebody sick at home?”

Starratt could easily have lied and closed the incident quickly, but an illogical pride stirred him to the truth.

“No,” he returned, quietly, “I’m simply short.  We’re having some company in for dinner and there are a few things to get—­cigars and—­well, you know what.”

Wetherbee threw him a lip-curling glance.  “Cigars?  Well, twopenny clerks do keep up a pretty scratch and no mistake.  In my day—­”

Starratt cut him short with an impatient gesture.

“Times have changed, Mr. Wetherbee.”

“Yes, I should say they have,” the elder man sneered, as he reached for the key to the cash drawer.

For a moment Starratt felt an enormous relief at the old man’s significant movement.  He was to get the money, after all!  But almost at once he was moved to sudden resentment.  What right had Wetherbee to humiliate him before everybody within earshot?  He knew that the eyes of the entire force were being leveled at him, and he felt a surge of satisfaction as he said, very distinctly: 

“Don’t bother, Mr. Wetherbee...  It really doesn’t make the slightest difference.  I’ll manage somehow.”

Old Wetherbee shrugged and went on adding figures.  Starratt felt confused.  The whole scene had fallen flat.  His suave heroics had not even made Wetherbee feel cheap.  He went back to his desk.

Presently a hand rested upon his shoulder.  He knew Brauer’s fawning, almost apologetic, touch.  He turned.

“If you’re short—­” Brauer was whispering.

Starratt hesitated.  Deep down he never had liked Brauer; in fact, he always had just missed snubbing him.  Still it was decent of Brauer to...

“That’s very kind, I’m sure.  Could you give me—­say, five dollars?”

Brauer thrust two lean, bloodless fingers into his vest pocket and drew out a crisp note.

“Thanks, awfully,” Starratt said, quickly, as he reached for the money.

Brauer’s face lit up with a swift glow of satisfaction.  Starratt almost shrank back.  He felt a clammy hand pressing the bill against his palm.

“Thanks, awfully,” he murmured again.

Brauer dropped his eyes with a suggestion of unpleasant humility.