“If you had pressed out his morals, Isaac, it would have helped some.”

“They didn’t need it.  He was a very quiet young man and very polite; not so fat, or so red or so rich, as he is now.  I saw him the other day in our bank.  You see,” and he winked slyly at Jack, “these grand people must borrow sometimes, like the rest of us; but he never remembers me any more.”  Isaac paused for a moment as if the reminiscence had recalled some amusing incident.  When he continued his face had a broad smile—­“and I must say, too, that he always paid his bills.  Once, when he was afraid he could not pay, he wanted to bring the coat back, but I wouldn’t let him.  Oh, yes, a very nice young man, Mr. Arthur Breen,” and the tailor’s plump body shook with suppressed laughter.

“You know, of course, that he is this young man’s uncle,” said Peter, laying his hand affectionately on Jack’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes, I know about it.  I saw the likeness that first day you came in,” he continued, nodding to Jack.  “It was one of the times when your sister, the magnificent Miss Grayson was here, Mr. Grayson.”  Isaac always called her so, a merry twinkle in his eye when he said it, but with a face and voice showing nothing but the deepest respect; at which Peter would laugh a gentle laugh in apology for his sister’s peculiarities, a dislike of little tailors being one of them—­this little tailor especially.

“And now, Mr. Breen, I hope you will have better luck,” Isaac said, rising from his chair and holding out his hand.

“But you are not going, Isaac,” protested Peter.

“Yes, this young gentleman, I see, is in a good deal of trouble and I cannot help him much, so I will go away,” and with a wave of his pudgy hand he shut the door behind him and trotted downstairs to his shop.

Jack waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps assured the Jew’s permanent departure, then he turned to Peter.

“I did not want to say too much before Mr. Cohen, but Uncle Arthur’s refusal has upset me completely.  I could not have believed it of him.  You must help me somehow, Uncle Peter.  I don’t mean with your own money; you have not got it to spare—­but so I can get it somewhere.  I must have it, and I can’t rest until I do get it.”

“Why, my dear boy!  Is it so bad as that?  I thought you were joking.”

“I tried to joke about it while Mr. Cohen was here, but he saw through it, I know, from the way he spoke:  but this really is a very serious matter; more serious than anything that ever happened to me.”

Peter walked to the sofa and sat down.  Jack’s manner and the tone of his voice showed that a grave calamity had overtaken the boy.  He sat looking into Jack’s eyes.

“Go on,” he said, his heart in his mouth.

“I must have ten thousand dollars.  How and where can I borrow it?”

Peter started.  “Ten thousand dollars!” he repeated in undisguised surprise.  “Whew!  Why, Jack, that’s a very large sum of money for you to want.  Why, my dear boy, this is—­well—­well!”