“But I don’t understand—­”

“I’m sorry.  Is there anything else?”

“No.  That’s all.”

Even Conniston’s sanguine temperament was not proof to the shock of his father’s message.  He knew his father too well to hope that he would change his mind now.  His eyes showed a troubled anxiety when he went slowly back to confront Hapgood.

“Well, what’s the good news?” cried Hapgood.  And then, when he had seen Conniston’s face, “Gad, man!  What’s wrong?”

Conniston shook his head as he sank into a chair.

“I—­I’m a bit upset,” he answered, unsteadily.  “I made a mistake; that’s all.”

“It wasn’t your father?”

“That’s the trouble.  It was!  He refuses to send a dollar.  And he’s leaving to-morrow for a year in Europe.”

“What!” yelled Hapgood, leaping to his feet in entire forgetfulness of his sore muscles.

“That’s it.  And when the old man says he’ll do a thing he’ll do it.”

Hapgood stared at him speechless.  And then, his hands driven deep into his pockets, he began an agitated pacing up and down the porch, his brows drawn, his eyes squinting as they had the habit of doing when he was excited.

“What are we going to do?” he demanded, stopping before Conniston.

“I wish that somebody would tell me!  We have a couple of horses.  You have seven dollars.  Maybe,” with a faint, forced smile, “we can ride back to New York!”

With a disgusted sniff Hapgood left him again to pace restlessly up and down.  And finally, when he again stopped in front of Conniston’s chair, his face was white, his thin lips set bloodlessly.

“I guess there’s only one thing left to us.  We’ll go on into Crawfordsville and put up for a day or two while we try to raise some money.  Your seven dollars ought to keep us from starving—­”

“Will you wire your father again?”

“No.  There would be no use.  I tell you that when he says he is going to do a thing that settles it.  If I broke both arms and legs now he wouldn’t pay the doctor’s bill.”

“Then I’ll tell you something, my friend!” The pale little eyes were glowing, malevolently red.  “You’ve played me for a sucker long enough.  You towed me along out into this cursed West of yours, making me think all the time that when you got ready to call on your father he’d come through like a flash.  And you knew that he had turned you out for good.  Now I am through with you.  Get that?  I mean it!  And if I have seven dollars I guess I’ll need it myself before I get out of this pickle you’ve got me into!”

Conniston stared at him incredulously.  “Come, now, Roger.  You don’t mean—­”

“But I do, Mr. William Conniston, fraud!  I’m through with you.”

Conniston got to his feet, his own face as white as Hapgood’s.

“You mean what you are saying?”

“I most certainly and positively do!”

“And the wire I sent to dad—­”