“Well, Jack,” he answered with an indrawn sigh,—­“if you must know, I’m on the wrong side of the market.”

“Stocks?”

“Not exactly.  The bottom’s fallen out of the Warehouse Company.”

Jack’s heart gave a rebound.  After all, it was only a question of money and this could be straightened out.  He had begun to fear that it might be something worse; what, he dared not conjecture.

“And you have lost money?” Jack continued in a less eager tone.

“A whole lot of money.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, but a lot.  It went up three points to-day and so I am hanging on by my eyelids.”

“Well, that’s not the first time men have been in that position,” Jack replied in a hopeful tone.  “Is there anything more,—­ something you are keeping back?”

“Yes,—­a good deal more.  I’m afraid I’ll have to let go.  If I do I’m ruined.”

Jack kept silent for a moment.  Various ways of raising money to help his friend passed in review, none of which at the moment seemed feasible or possible.

“How much will make your account good?” he asked after a pause.

“About ten thousand dollars.”

Jack leaned forward in his chair.  “Ten thousand dollars!” he exclaimed in a startled tone.  “Why, Garry—­how in the name of common-sense did you get in as deep as that?”

“Because I was a damned fool!”

Again there was silence, during which Garry fumbled for a match, opened his case and lighted a cigarette.  Then he said slowly, as he tossed the burnt end of the match from him: 

“You said something, Jack, about some of your friends helping.  Could Mr. MacFarlane?”

“No,—­he hasn’t got it,—­not to spare.  I was thinking of another kind of help when I spoke.  I supposed you had got into debt, or something, and were depending on your commissions to pull you out, and that some new job was hanging fire and perhaps some of us could help as we did on the church.”

“No,” rejoined Garry, in a hopeless tone, “nothing will help but a certified check.  Perhaps your Mr. Grayson might do something,” he continued in the same voice.

“Uncle Peter!  Why, Garry, he doesn’t earn ten thousand dollars in three years.”

Again there was silence.

“Well, would it be any use for you to ask Arthur Breen?  He wouldn’t give me a cent, and I wouldn’t ask him.  I don’t believe in laying down on your wife’s relations, but he might do it for you now that you’re getting up in the world.”

Jack bent his head in deep thought.  The proposal that his uncle had made him for the ore lands passed in review.  At that time he could have turned over the property to Breen.  But it was worthless now.  He shook his head: 

“I don’t think so.”  Then he added quickly—­“Have you been to Mr. Morris?”

“No, and won’t.  I’d die first!” this came in a sharp, determined voice, as if it had jumped hot from his heart.