sought his bill-book. It was empty. For a moment he was confused.
“Oh, never mind,” said Jimmy, perceiving his embarrassment. “I’ll ’phone Dad to send it up by messenger. Bit of fool carelessness on my part. You’ll excuse me?”
Harndon hurried off to the telephone.
Don stared at his empty pocket-book, at the head waiter, who still stood at the door expectantly, and then replaced the empty wallet in his pocket. There was no use waiting here any longer. He could not dine, if he wished. Never before in his life had he been confronted by such a situation. Once or twice he had been in Harndon’s predicament, but that had meant no more to him than it meant to Harndon–nothing but a temporary embarrassment. The difference now was that Harndon could still telephone his father and that he could not. Here was a significant distinction; it was something he must think over.
Don went on to the Harvard Club. He passed two or three men he knew in the lobby, but shook his head at their invitation to join them. He took a seat by himself before an open fire in a far corner of the lounge. Then he took out his bill-book again, and examined it with some care, in the hope that a bill might have slipped in among his cards. The search was without result. Automatically his father’s telephone number suggested itself, but that number now was utterly without meaning. A new tenant already occupied those offices–a tenant who undoubtedly would report to the police a modest request to forward to the Harvard Club by messenger a hundred dollars.
He was beginning to feel hungry–much hungrier than he would have felt with a pocket full of money. Of course his credit at the club was good. He could have gone into the dining-room and ordered what he wished. But credit took on a new meaning. Until now it had been nothing but a trifling convenience, because at the end of the month he had only to forward his bill to his father. But that could not be done any longer.
He could also have gone to any one of a dozen men of his acquaintance and borrowed from five to fifty dollars. But it was one thing to borrow as he had in the past, and another to borrow in his present circumstances. He had no right to borrow. The whole basis of his credit was gone.
The situation was, on the face of it, so absurd that the longer he thought it over the more convinced he became that Barton had made some mistake. He decided to telephone Barton.
It was with a sense of relief that Don found the name of Barton & Saltonstall still in the telephone-book. It would not have surprised him greatly if that too had disappeared. It was with a still greater sense of relief that he finally heard Barton’s voice.
“Look here,” he began. “It seems to me there must be some misunderstanding somewhere. Do you realize that I’m stony broke?”
“Why, no,” answered Barton. “I thought you showed me the matter of thirteen dollars or so.”
“I did; but that’s gone, and all I have now is the matter of thirteen cents or so.”
“I’m sorry,” answered Barton. “If a small loan would be of any temporary advantage–”
“Hang it!” cut in Don. “You don’t think I’m trying to borrow, do you?”
“I beg your pardon. Perhaps you will tell me, then, just what you do wish.”
“I must eat, mustn’t I?”
“I consider that a fair presumption.”
“Then what the deuce!”
Don evidently expected this ejaculation to be accepted as a full and conclusive statement. But, as far as Barton was concerned, it was not. “Yes?” he queried.
“I say, what the deuce?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Oh, I see. You mean, I take it, what must you do in order to provide yourself with funds.”
“Exactly,” growled Don.
“Of course, the usual method is to work,” suggested Barton.
“Eh?”
“To find a position with some firm which, in return for your services, is willing to pay you a certain fixed sum weekly or monthly. I offer you the suggestion for what it is worth. You can think it over.”
“Think it over!” exclaimed Don. “How long do you think I can think on thirteen cents?”
“If you authorize me to act for you, I have no doubt something can be arranged.”
“You seem to hold all the cards.”
“I am merely obeying your father’s commands,” Barton hastened to assure him. “Now, can you give me any idea what you have in mind?”
“I’ll do anything except sell books,” Don answered promptly.
“Very well,” concluded Barton. “I’ll advise you by mail as soon as anything develops.”
“Thanks.”
“In the mean while, if you will accept a loan–”
“Thanks again,” answered Don; “but I’ll go hungry first.” He hung up the receiver and went back to the lounge.
CHAPTER III
THE QUEEN WAS IN THE PARLOR
Stuyvesant was proud of his daughter–proud of her beauty, proud of her ability to dress, proud of her ability to spend money. She gave him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she wore, for Don’s benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he designed the gown.
The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant chef–who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant was in a good humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.
“I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon,” said Frances. “He was very nice to me.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” inquired Don.
“I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the bother of allowing one’s self to be engaged, the least one expects is a certain amount of attention from one’s fiancée.”
She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her hand–the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother’s.
“You’re right,” he nodded; “but I was all tied up with business this afternoon.”
She raised her dark brows a trifle.
“Business?”
“Lots of it,” he nodded.
