His uncle was in the library, having just bowed out his last guest, when the boy strode in.  About him were squatty little tables holding the remnants of the aftermath of the feast—­siphons and decanters and the sample boxes of cigars—­full to the lid when Parkins first passed them (why fresh cigars out of a full box should have a better flavor than the same cigars from a half-empty one has always been a mystery to the Scribe).

That the dinner had been a success gastronomically, socially and financially, was apparent from the beatific boozy smile that pervaded Breen’s face as he lay back in his easy-chair.  To disturb a reverie of this kind was as bad as riding rough-shod over some good father digesting his first meal after Lent, but the boy’s purpose was too lofty to be blunted by any such considerations.  Into the arena went his glove and out rang his challenge.

“What I have got to say to you, Uncle Arthur, breaks my heart, but you have got to listen to me!  I have waited until they were all gone to tell you.”

Breen laid his glass on the table and straightened himself in his chair.  His brain was reeling from the wine he had taken and his hand unsteady, but he still had control of his arms and legs.

“Well, out with it!  What’s it all about, Jack?”

“I heard this afternoon that my friend Gilbert was ruined in our office.  The presence of these men to-night makes me believe it to be true.  If it is true, I want to tell you that I’ll never enter the office again as long as I live!”

Breen’s eyes flashed: 

“You’ll never enter! ...  What the devil is the matter with you, Jack!—­are you drunk or crazy?”

“Neither!  And I want to tell you, sir, too, that I won’t be pointed out as having anything to do with such a swindling concern as the Mukton Lode Company.  You’ve stopped the work on Gilbert’s house—­Mr., Morris told me so—­you’ve—­”

The older man sprang from his seat and lunged toward the boy.

“Stop it!” he cried.  “Now—­quick!”

“Yes—­and you’ve just given a dinner to the very men who helped steal his money, and they sat here and laughed about it!  I heard them as I came in!” The boy’s tears were choking him now.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop, you idiot!” His fist was within an inch of Jack’s nose:  “Do you want me to knock your head off?  What the hell is it your business who I invite to dinner—­and what do you know about Mukton Lode?  Now you go to bed, and damn quick, too!  Parkins, put out the lights!”

And so ended the great crusade with our knight unhorsed and floundering in the dust.  Routed by the powers of darkness, like many another gallant youth in the old chivalric days, his ideals laughed at, his reforms flouted, his protests ignored—­and this, too, before he could fairly draw his sword or couch his lance.

CHAPTER XI