“Yes, but it isn’t well to let eagerness rush you into a folly.”

“Ah, but in this affair folly was at the other end—­at the buying.”

“Then, with a wise sale, let us correct that folly.”

“All right, but without haggling.  When are you to meet this man again?”

“At noon.”

“And when shall I see you?”

“Immediately after the deal is closed.”

On DeGolyer’s part the day was spent in the spinning of the threads of excuses.  He might explain a week’s delay, but how was he to account for a three months’ put-off?  And if at the end of that time young Witherspoon’s case should be pronounced hopeless what course was then to be taken?

He did not see George Witherspoon again until dinner-time.  The merchant met him with a quick inquiry.  “We will discuss it in the library, father,” DeGolyer answered.

“But can’t you tell me now whether or not it has come out all right?”

“I think it’s all right, but you may not.  But let as wait until after dinner.”

When they went into the library Witherspoon hastily lighted his cigar, and sat down in his leather-covered chair.  “Well, how did it come out?” he asked.

DeGolyer did not sit down.  Evidently he expected to remain in the room but a short time.

“I told you that he was a very peculiar fellow.”

“Yes, I know that.  What did you do with him?”

“Well, the deal isn’t closed yet.  He wants to go into the office and work three months before he decides.”

“Tell him to go to the devil!” Witherspoon exclaimed.

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why can’t you?  Do you belong to him?  Have you a consideration for everybody but me?”

“I very nearly belong to him.”

“You very nearly belong to him!” Witherspoon cried.  “What in the name of God do you mean?  Have you lost your senses?”

“My senses are all right, but my situation is peculiar.”

“I should think so.  Henry, I don’t want to fly all to pieces.  Lately, and with your help, I have pulled myself strongly together, and now I beg of you not to pull me apart.”

“Father, some time ago you said that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise; and now I ask you to exert a little of that control.  The sense of obligation has always been strong in me, and I feel that it is largely developed in you.  I said that I very nearly belonged to this man, and I will tell you why; and don’t be impatient, but listen to me for a few minutes.  A number of years ago uncle left me in New Orleans and went on one of his trips to South America.  He had not been gone long when yellow fever broke out.  It was unusually fatal, and the city, though long accustomed to the disease, was panic-stricken.  I was one of the early victims.  Every member of the family I boarded with died within a week, and I was left in the house alone.  This man, this peculiar fellow,