“Oh, with their hands?” cried Peter with a laugh.  “Well, now, let me see—­” and his glance roved about the room.  “There is Mr. Schlessinger, the Egyptologist, but of course he was after mummies, not dirt; and then there is—­yes—­that sun-burned young fellow of forty, talking to Mr. Eastman Johnson; he has been at work in Yucatan looking for Toltec ruins, because he told me his experience only a few nights ago; but then, of course, that can hardly be said to be—­Oh!—­now I have it.  You see that tall man with side-whiskers, looking like a young bank president—­my kind—­ my boy—­well, he started life with a pick and shovel.  The steel point of the pick if I remember rightly, turned up a nugget of gold that made him rich, but he dug all the same, and he may again some day—­you can’t tell.”

It had all been a delightful experience for Jack and his face showed it, but it was not until after I left that the story of why he had come late was told.  He had started several times to explain but the constant interruption of members anxious to shake Peter’s hand, had always prevented.

“I haven’t apologized for being late, sir,” Jack had said at last.  “It was long after ten, I am afraid, but I could not help it.”

“No; what was the matter?”

“I didn’t get the letter until half an hour before I reached here.”

“Why, I sent it to your uncle’s house, and mailed it myself, just after you had gone out with Miss MacFarlane.”

“Yes, sir; but I am not at my uncle’s house any more.  I am staying with Garry Minott in his rooms; I have the sofa.”

Peter gave a low whistle.

“And you have given up your desk at the office as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bless my soul, my boy!  And what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know; but I will not go on as I have been doing.  I can’t, Mr. Grayson, and you must not ask it.  I would rather sweep the streets.  I have just seen poor Charley Gilbert and Mrs. Gilbert.  He has not a dollar in the world, and is going West, he tells me.”

Peter reflected for a moment.  It was all he could do to hide his delight.

“And what do your people say?”

“My aunt says I am an idiot, and Corinne won’t speak to me.”

“And your uncle?”

“Nothing, to me.  He told Garry that if I didn’t come back in three days I should never enter his house or his office again.”

“But you are going back?  Are you not?”

“No,—­never.  Not if I starve!”

Peter’s eyes were twinkling when he related the conversation to me the next day.

“I could have hugged him, Major,” he said, when he finished, “and I would if we had not been at the club.”

CHAPTER XIII