“Some people we do business with; some of them laughed at me; some gave me advice; none of them had any money.”

“I expected it.  I don’t think you are quite aware of what you ask, my dear boy.”

“Perhaps I am not, but I am beginning to see.  It is a new experience for me.  If my father had wanted the money for the same purpose for which I want this, he would not have had to drive a mile from his house before he would have had it.”

“Your father lived in a different atmosphere, my boy; in another age, really.  In his environment money meant the education of children, the comfort of women, and the hospitalities that make up social life.”

“Well, is not that true now, among decent people?” protested Jack, his mind going back to some homes he remembered.

“No—­not generally—­not here in New York.  Money here means the right to exist on the planet; we fight for it as we do for our lives.  Your own need of this ten thousand dollars proves it.  The men I tried to find this afternoon have more than they need or ever will need; that’s why I called on them.  If I lost it, it wouldn’t matter to them, but I would never hear the last of it all the same,” and a shudder ran through him.

Peter did not tell Jack that had Portman been at home and, out of friendship for him, had agreed to his request, he would have required the old fellow’s name on a demand note for the amount of the loan; and that he would willingly have signed it, to relieve the boy’s mind and ward off the calamity that threatened those he loved and those who loved him—­not one cent of which, the Scribe adds in all positiveness, would the boy have taken had he known that the dear fellow had in any way pledged himself for its return.

For some minutes Jack sat stretched out in his chair, his body aslant; Peter still beside him.  All the events of the day and night passed in review before him; Garry’s face and heavy breathing; McGowan’s visit and defiance; Corinne’s agonized shriek—­even the remembrance made him creep—­then Ruth’s voice and her pleading look:  “The poor little boy.  Jack.  He has done no wrong—­all his life he must be pointed at.”

He dragged himself to his feet.

“I will go back to Ruth now, Uncle Peter.  Thank you for trying.  I know it is a wild goose chase, but I must keep moving.  You will be out to-morrow; we bury poor Garry at one o’clock.  I still have all day Monday.  Good-night.”

“Come out and dine with me, my boy—­we will go to—­”

“No, Ruth is worrying.  I will get something to eat when I get home.  Good-night!”

CHAPTER XXIX

Jack descended Peter’s stairs one step at a time, Each seemed to plunge him the deeper into some pit of despair.  Before he reached the bottom he began to realize the futility of his efforts.  He began to realize, too, that both he and Ruth had been swept off their feet by their emotions.  MacFarlane, the elder Breen, and now Peter, had all either openly condemned his course or had given it scant encouragement.  There was nothing to go new but go home and tell Ruth.  Then, after the funeral was over, he would have another talk with MacFarlane.