Part 45 (1/2)

Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had just come in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one from the shop below had sent upstairs for him.

”Oh! it's you, my boy!” Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms around Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room. Then something in the boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the tragedy. ”Yes, I read it all in the papers,” he exclaimed in a sympathetic voice. ”Terrible, isn't it! Poor Minott. How are his wife and the poor little baby--and dear Ruth. The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course I'm going.” As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.

”Are you ill, my boy?” he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a seat on the sofa. ”You look terribly worn.”

”We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter,” Jack replied with a glance at Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.

”Yes--but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you can tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?--is it Ruth?”

Jack's face cleared. ”No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest love.”

”Then it's your work up in the valley?”

”No--we begin in a month. Everything's ready--or will be.”

”Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all now.

Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he were once.

Yes, it is a dreadful thing to lose a friend. Poor boy!”

”No--it's not that altogether, Uncle Peter.”

He could not tell him. The dear old gentleman was ignorant of everything regarding Garry and his affairs, except that he was a brilliant young architect, with a das.h.i.+ng way about him, of whom Morris was proud. This image he could not and would not destroy. And yet something must be done to switch Peter from the main subject--at least until Cohen should leave.

”The fact is I have just had an interview with Uncle Arthur, and he has rather hurt my feelings,” Jack continued in explanation, a forced smile on his face. ”I wanted to borrow a little money. All I had to offer as security was my word.”

Peter immediately became interested. Nothing delighted him so much as to talk over Jack's affairs. Was he not a silent partner in the concern?

”You wanted it, of course, to help out on the new work,” he rejoined.

”Yes, it always takes money in the beginning. And what did the old fox say?”

Jack smiled meaningly. ”He said that what I called 'my word' wasn't a collateral. Wanted something better. So I've got to hunt for it somewhere else.”

”And he wouldn't give it to you?” cried Peter indignantly. ”No, of course not! A man's word doesn't count with these pickers and stealers.

Half--three-quarters--of the business of the globe is done on a man's word. He writes it on the bottom or on the back of a slip of paper small enough to light a cigar with--but it's only his word that counts.

In these mouse-traps, however, these cracks in the wall, they want something they can get rid of the moment somebody else says it is not worth what they loaned on it; or they want a bond with the Government behind it. Oh, I know them!”

Cohen laughed--a dry laugh--in compliment to Peter's way of putting it--but there was no ring of humor in it. He had been reading Jack's mind. There was something behind the forced smile that Peter had missed--something deeper than the lines of anxiety and the haunted look in the eyes. This was a different lad from the one with whom he had spent so pleasant an evening some weeks before. What had caused the change?

”Don't you abuse them, Mr. Grayson--these p.a.w.n-brokers,” he said in his slow, measured way. ”If every man was a Turk we could take his word, but when they are Jews and Christians and such other unreliable people, of course they want something for their ducats. It's the same old pound of flesh. Very respectable firm this, Mr. Arthur Breen & Co.--VERY respectable people. I used to press off the elder gentleman's coat--he had only two--one of them I made myself when he first came to New York--but he has forgotten all about it now,” and the little tailor purred softly.

”If you had pressed out his morals, Isaac, it would have helped some.”

”They didn't need it. He was a very quiet young man and very polite; not so fat, or so red or so rich, as he is now. I saw him the other day in our bank. You see,” and he winked slyly at Jack, ”these grand people must borrow sometimes, like the rest of us; but he never remembers me any more.” Isaac paused for a moment as if the reminiscence had recalled some amusing incident. When he continued his face had a broad smile--”and I must say, too, that he always paid his bills. Once, when he was afraid he could not pay, he wanted to bring the coat back, but I wouldn't let him. Oh, yes, a very nice young man, Mr. Arthur Breen,” and the tailor's plump body shook with suppressed laughter.

”You know, of course, that he is this young man's uncle,” said Peter, laying his hand affectionately on Jack's shoulder.

”Oh, yes, I know about it. I saw the likeness that first day you came in,” he continued, nodding to Jack. ”It was one of the times when your sister, the magnificent Miss Grayson was here, Mr. Grayson.” Isaac always called her so, a merry twinkle in his eye when he said it, but with a face and voice showing nothing but the deepest respect; at which Peter would laugh a gentle laugh in apology for his sister's peculiarities, a dislike of little tailors being one of them--this little tailor especially.

”And now, Mr. Breen, I hope you will have better luck,” Isaac said, rising from his chair and holding out his hand.