That Jack hardly closed his eyes that night, and that the first thing he did after opening them the next morning was to fly to Peter for comfort and advice, goes without saying.  Even a sensible, well-balanced young man—­and our Jack, to the Scribe’s great regret, is none of these—­would have done this with his skin still smarting from an older man’s verbal scorching—­especially a man like his uncle, provided, of course, he had a friend like Peter within reach.  How much more reasonable, therefore, to conclude that a man so quixotic as our young hero would seek similar relief.

As to the correctness of the details of this verbal scorching, so minutely described in the preceding chapter, should the reader ask how it is possible for the Scribe to set down in exact order the goings-on around a dinner-table to which he was not invited, as well as the particulars of a family row where only two persons participated—­neither of whom was himself—­and this, too, in the dead of night, with the outside doors locked and the shades and curtains drawn—­he must plead guilty without leaving the prisoner’s dock.

And yet he asks in all humility—­is the play not enough?—­or must he lift the back-drop and bring into view the net-work of pulleys and lines, the tanks of moonlight gas and fake properties of papier-mache that produce the illusion?  As a compromise would it not be the better way after this for him to play the Harlequin, popping in and out at the unexpected moment, helping the plot here and there by a gesture, a whack, or a pirouette; hobnobbing with Peter or Miss Felicia, and their friends; listening to Jack’s and Ruth’s talk, or following them at a distance, whenever his presence might embarrass either them or the comedy?

This being agreed upon, we will leave our hero this bright morning—­the one succeeding the row with his uncle—­at the door of Peter’s bank, confident that Jack can take care of himself.

And the confidence is not misplaced.  Only once did the boy’s glance waver, and that was when his eyes sought the window facing Peter’s desk.  Some egg other than Peter’s was nesting on the open ledger spread out on the Receiving Teller’s desk—­not an ostrich egg of a head at all, but an evenly parted, well-combed, well-slicked brown wig, covering the careful pate of one of the other clerks who, in the goodness of his heart, was filling Peter’s place for the day.

Everybody being busy—­too busy to answer questions outside of payments and deposits—­Patrick, the porter, must necessarily conduct the negotiations.

“No, sur; he’s not down to-day—­” was the ever-watchful Patrick’s answer to Jack’s anxious inquiry.  “His sister’s come from the country and he takes a day off now and thin when she’s here.  You’ll find him up at his place in Fifteenth Street, I’m thinkin.”