Peter Part 46

"It is a forlorn hope, Jack, but I'll try it. Come back here in an hour--or stay here and wait."

"No, I'll keep moving," replied Jack. "I have thought of some supply men who know me; our account is considerable; they would lend it to Mr.

MacFarlane, but that's not the way I want it. I'll see them and get back as soon as I can--perhaps in a couple of hours."

"Then make it eight o'clock, so as to be sure. I have thought of something else. Ten thousand dollars," he kept muttering to himself--"ten thousand dollars"--as he put on his hat and moved to the door. There he stopped and faced about--his bushy brows tightening as a new difficulty confronted him. "Well, but for how long?" That part of the transaction Jack had forgotten to mention.

"I can't tell; maybe a year--maybe more."

Peter advanced a step as if to return to the room and give up the whole business.

"But Jack, my boy, don't you see how impossible a loan of that kind is?"

Jack stood irresolute. In his mad desire to save Garry he had not considered that phase of the matter.

"Yes--but I've GOT TO HAVE IT," he cried in a positive tone. "You would feel just as I do, if you knew the circ.u.mstances."

Peter turned without a word and opened the door leading into the hall.

"Be back here at eight," was all he said as he shut the door behind him and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs.

Shortly before the appointed hour Jack again mounted the three flights of steps to Peter's rooms. He had had a queer experience--queer for him.

The senior member of one supply firm had looked at him sharply, and had then said with a contemptuous smile, "Well, we are looking for ten thousand dollars ourselves, and will pay a commission to get it."

Another had replied that they were short, or would be glad to oblige him, and as soon as Jack left the office had called to their bookkeeper to "send MacFarlane his account, and say we have some heavy payments to meet, and will he oblige us with a check"--adding to his partner--"Something rotten in Denmark, or that young fellow wouldn't be looking around for a wad as big as that." A third merchant heard him out, and with some feeling in his voice said: "I'm sorry for you, Breen"--Jack's need of money was excuse enough for the familiarity--"for Mr. MacFarlane thinks everything of you, he's told me so a dozen times--and there isn't any finer man living than Henry MacFarlane. But, just as your friend, let me tell you to stay out of the Street; it's no place for a young man like you. No--I don't mean any offence. If I didn't believe in you myself, I wouldn't say it. Take my advice and stay out."

And so footsore and heart-sore, his face haggard from hunger, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast, his purpose misunderstood, his own character a.s.sailed, his pride humiliated, and with courage almost gone, he strode into Peter's room and threw himself into a chair.

Peter heard his step and entered from his bedroom, where he had finished dressing for dinner. The old fellow seemed greatly troubled. One glance at Jack's face told the story of the afternoon.

"You have done nothing, Jack?" he asked in a despondent tone.

"No--have you?"

"Nothing. Portman has gone to his place on Long Island, the others were out. Whom did you see?"

"Some people we do business with; some of them laughed at me; some gave me advice; none of them had any money."

"I expected it. I don't think you are quite aware of what you ask, my dear boy."

"Perhaps I am not, but I am beginning to see. It is a new experience for me. If my father had wanted the money for the same purpose for which I want this, he would not have had to drive a mile from his house before he would have had it."

"Your father lived in a different atmosphere, my boy; in another age, really. In his environment money meant the education of children, the comfort of women, and the hospitalities that make up social life."

"Well, is not that true now, among decent people?" protested Jack, his mind going back to some homes he remembered.

"No--not generally--not here in New York. Money here means the right to exist on the planet; we fight for it as we do for our lives. Your own need of this ten thousand dollars proves it. The men I tried to find this afternoon have more than they need or ever will need; that's why I called on them. If I lost it, it wouldn't matter to them, but I would never hear the last of it all the same," and a shudder ran through him.

Peter did not tell Jack that had Portman been at home and, out of friends.h.i.+p for him, had agreed to his request, he would have required the old fellow's name on a demand note for the amount of the loan; and that he would willingly have signed it, to relieve the boy's mind and ward off the calamity that threatened those he loved and those who loved him--not one cent of which, the Scribe adds in all positiveness, would the boy have taken had he known that the dear fellow had in any way pledged himself for its return.

For some minutes Jack sat stretched out in his chair, his body aslant; Peter still beside him. All the events of the day and night pa.s.sed in review before him; Garry's face and heavy breathing; McGowan's visit and defiance; Corinne's agonized shriek--even the remembrance made him creep--then Ruth's voice and her pleading look: "The poor little boy.

Jack. He has done no wrong--all his life he must be pointed at."

He dragged himself to his feet.

"I will go back to Ruth now, Uncle Peter. Thank you for trying. I know it is a wild goose chase, but I must keep moving. You will be out to-morrow; we bury poor Garry at one o'clock. I still have all day Monday. Good-night."

"Come out and dine with me, my boy--we will go to--"

"No, Ruth is worrying. I will get something to eat when I get home.

Good-night!"

CHAPTER XXIX

Jack descended Peter's stairs one step at a time, Each seemed to plunge him the deeper into some pit of despair. Before he reached the bottom he began to realize the futility of his efforts. He began to realize, too, that both he and Ruth had been swept off their feet by their emotions.

MacFarlane, the elder Breen, and now Peter, had all either openly condemned his course or had given it scant encouragement. There was nothing to go new but go home and tell Ruth. Then, after the funeral was over, he would have another talk with MacFarlane.

He had reached the cool air of the street, and stood hesitating whether to cross the Square on his way to the ferry, or to turn down the avenue, when the door of Isaac Cohen's shop opened, and the little tailor put out his head.

"I have been waiting for you." he said in a measured voice. "Come inside."

Jack was about to tell him that he must catch a train, when something in the tailor's manner and the earnestness with which he spoke, made the young fellow alter his mind and follow him.

The little man led the way through the now darkened and empty shop, lighted by one gas jet--past the long cutting counter flanked by shelves bearing rolls of cloth and paper patterns, around the octagon stove where the irons were still warm, and through the small door which led into his private room. There he turned up a reading lamp, its light softened by a green shade, and motioning Jack to a seat, said abruptly, but politely--more as a request than a demand:

"I have a question to ask you, and you will please tell me the truth.

How much money do you want, and what do you want it for?"

Jack bit his lip. He wanted money, and he wanted it badly, but the tailor had no right to pry into his private affairs--certainly not in this way.

"Well, that was something I was talking to Uncle Peter about," he rejoined stiffly. "I suppose you must have overheard."

"Yes, I did. Go on--how much money do you want, and what do you want it for?"

"But, Mr. Cohen, I don't think I ought to bother you with my troubles.

They wouldn't interest you."

"Now, my dear young man, you will please not misunderstand me. You are very intelligent, and you are very honest, and you always say what is in your heart; I have heard you do it many times. Now say it to me."

There was no mistaking the tailor's earnestness. It evidently was not mere curiosity which prompted him. It was something else. Jack wondered vaguely if the Jew wanted to turn money-lender at a big percentage.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked; more to gain time to fathom his purpose than with any intention of giving him the facts.

Isaac went to his desk, opened with great deliberation an ebony box, took out two cigars, offered one to Jack, leaned over the lamp until his own was alight, and took the chair opposite Jack's. All this time Jack sat watching him as a child does a necromancer, wondering what he meant to do next.

"Why do I want to know, Mr. Breen? Well, I will tell you. I have loved Mr. Grayson for a great many years. When he goes out in the morning he always looks through the gla.s.s window and waves his hand. If I am not in sight, he opens the door and calls inside, 'Ah, good-morning, Isaac.' At night, when he comes home, he waves his hand again. I know every line in his face, and it is always a happy face. Once or twice a week he comes in here, and we talk. That is his chair--the one you are sitting in.

Once or twice a week I go up and sit in his chair and talk. In all the years I have known him I have only seen him troubled once or twice. Then I asked him the reason, and he told me. To-day I heard you speak about some money you wanted, and then I saw that something had gone wrong.