Peter broke into a laugh.  It was the only way he could keep down the tears.

“What a dear boy you are, Jack,” he said, backing toward the sofa and regaining his seat.  “You’ve got a heart as big as a house, and I’m proud of you, but no—­not a penny of your money.  Think a moment!  Your father didn’t leave the property to me—­not any part of it—­he left it to you, you spendthrift!  When I get too old to work I am going up to Felicia’s and pick out an easy-chair and sit in a corner and dry up gradually and be laid away in lavender.  No, my lad, not a penny!  Gift money should go to cripples and hypochondriacs, not to spry old gentlemen.  I would not take it from my own father’s estate when I was your age, and I certainly won’t take it now from you.  I made Felicia take it all.”  Jack opened his eyes.  He had often wondered why Peter had so little and she so much.  “Oh, yes, nearly forty years ago!  But I have never regretted it since!  And you must see how just it was, for there wasn’t enough for two, and Felicia was a woman.  No—­be very careful of gift money, my boy, and be very careful, also, of too much of anybody’s money—­even your own.  What makes me most glad in this whole affair is that Guthrie didn’t give you a million—­that might have spoilt you.  This is just enough.  You and Ruth can start square.  You can help Henry—­and you ought to, he has been mighty good to you.  And, best of all, you can keep at work.  Yes—­that’s the best part of it—­that you can keep at work.  Go right on as you are; work every single day of your life, and earn your bread as you have done ever since you left New York, and, one thing more, and don’t you ever forget it:  Be sure you take your proper share of fun and rest as you go.  Eight hours’ work, eight hours’ play, eight hours’ sleep—­that’s the golden rule and the only one to live by.  Money will never get its grip on you if you keep this up.  This fortune hasn’t yet tightened its fingers around your throat, or you would never have come up here to give me half of it—­and never let it!  Money is your servant, my boy, not your master.  And now go home and kiss Ruth for me, and tell her that I love her dearly.  Wait a moment.  I will go with you as far as Isaac’s.  I am going to tell him the good news.  Then I’ll have him measure me for a coat to dance at your wedding.”

And the Unexpecteds are not yet over.  There was still another, of quite a different character, about to fall—­and out of another clear sky, too—­a sort of April-shower sky, where you get wet on one side of the street and keep dry on the other.  Jack had the dry side this time, and went on his way rejoicing, but the head of the house of Breen caught the downpour, and a very wet downpour it was.

It all occurred when Jack was hurrying to the ferry and when he ran into the senior member of the firm, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Ah, Jack!—­the very man I wanted to see,” cried Breen.  “I was going to write you.  There’s something doing up in that ore country.  Better drop in to-morrow, I may be able to handle it for you, after all.”