“I’ve no sort of an objection, I am sure.  You select them now, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance for that purpose,—­about as much as it costs now,—­and give me the money to spend where I please.”

Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.

“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice over.”

Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.

“No,” continued his father, “I don’t like the arrangement you propose.  When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course not exceeding reasonable limits.”

“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don’t like Bradshaw’s style of making clothes.  I would prefer trying some other tailor.”

“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw?  Is he not one of the most fashionable tailors in the city?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but——­”

“Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular.  All your garments set well, so far as I can judge.”

“Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes,” persisted George, a little embarrassed for further objections.

“Well,” said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, “If you are so strongly bent upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need.  You can tell him to send in his bill to me.”

“Thank you sir,” said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in which his request had been granted.  He saw that it would in no manner promote the plan which he had in view, since it would give him no command of the ready money.  It is hardly necessary to say that his alleged dissatisfaction with his father’s tailor had all been trumped up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of but for the present emergency.

“What shall I do!” thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly undressed himself and retired to bed.

The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father, to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery would have been once and forever removed.  But Dawkins was not brave enough for this.  He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty without his father’s knowledge.

He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon him.  In the evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to the gambling house.  He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he had.  This was lost.  Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars, and lost again.

With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room, more gloomy and discouraged than ever.  He was as badly off as before, and penniless beside.  He would have finished the evening at the theater, but his recent loss prevented that.  He lounged about the streets till it was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state of mind.