The boy was getting a new code of morals as well as a new vocabulary.

“You can’t hide a lie, Jerry.”

“I’m not harming anybody,” he muttered.

“Nobody but yourself,” I said sternly.

“I don’t see that,” he growled, clasping his great fists over his knees.

“It’s the truth.  You’ll harm yourself irrevocably.  The thing will come out somehow.  Jim Robinson isn’t Jerry Benham.  He’s the New York and South Western Railroad Company, the Seaboard Transportation Line, the United Oil Company—­”

“I’d get Clancy’s goat in the first round if he thought I was all that, wouldn’t I?” Jerry grinned sheepishly, while Jack Ballard fought back a smile.

“If you won’t consider your own interests, what you must consider is that you’ve no right to jeopardize the property interests of those who have put their money and their faith behind these enterprises which you control.  You’re already in a responsible position.  You’re making yourself a mountebank, a laughing-stock.  No one will ever trust you in a position of responsibility again.”

“I’m sorry, Roger, if you think things are as bad as that,” said Jerry coolly.  “I don’t.  And besides, I’m too far in this thing to back out now.”

There was no shaking his resolution.  We pleaded with him, argued, cajoled, ridiculed, but all to no purpose.  Jack painted a picture of the crowd in the Garden, the cat-calls, the jeers, imitated the introduction of past and present champions, and Jerry winced a little, but was not moved.  Finding all else unavailing, I fell back upon our friendship, recalling all Jerry’s old ideals and mine.  He softened a little, but merely repeated: 

“I can’t back out now, Roger.  They’ll think me a quitter.  I’d like to please you in everything, but I can’t, Roger, I can’t.”

Jack Ballard was so incensed at this obstinacy that he swore at the boy, flung out of the room and disappeared.

With a sober expression Jerry watched him go out and then rose and walked slowly to the window.  I looked at him in silence.  I knew his manner.  Confession was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he would not speak.  But I waited patiently.  Finally the silence became oppressive, and he swung around at me petulantly.

“I can’t see what’s the use of making such a lot of fuss over the thing,” he muttered.  “It seems as though because I have a lot of money I’ve got to be fettered to it hand and foot.  I’m not going to be a slave to a desk.  I’ve warned you of that.  You wanted me to be a great athlete, Roger, and now when I’m putting my skill to the test you rebel.”

“An athlete—­but a gentleman.  There are some things a gentleman doesn’t do.”