In spite of the continued efforts of idealists to belittle it, there is scarcely a fact of human experience capable of more universal substantiation than that in order to live it is necessary to eat. The corollary is equally true: in order to eat it is necessary to pay.

Yet until now Pendleton had been in a position to ignore, if not to refute, the latter statement. There was probably no detail of his daily existence calling for less thought or effort than this matter of dining. Opportunities were provided on every hand,––at the houses of his friends, at his club, at innumerable cafÉs and hotels,––and all that he was asked to contribute was an appetite.

It was not until he had exhausted his twelve dollars and sixty-three cents that Don was in any position to change his point of view. But that was very soon. After leaving the office of Barton & Saltonstall at eleven, he took a taxi to 12 the Harvard Club, which immediately cut down his capital to ten dollars and thirteen cents. Here he met friends, Higgins and Watson and Cabot of his class, and soon he had disposed of another dollar. They then persuaded him to walk part way downtown with them. On his return, he passed a florist’s, and, remembering that Frances was going that afternoon to a thÉ dansant, did the decent thing and sent up a dozen roses, which cost him five dollars. Shortly after this he passed a confectioner’s, and of course had to stop for a box of Frances’s favorite bonbons, which cost him another dollar.

Not that he considered the expense in the least. As long as he was able to reach in his pocket and produce a bill of sufficient value to cover the immediate investment, that was enough. But it is surprising how brief a while ten dollars will suffice in a leisurely stroll on Fifth Avenue. Within a block of the confectionery store two cravats that took his fancy and a box of cigarettes called for his last bill, and actually left him with nothing but a few odd pieces of silver. Even this did not impress 13 him as significant, because, as it happened, his wants were for the moment fully satisfied.

It was a clear October day, and, quite unconscious of the distance, Don continued up the Avenue to Sixtieth Street––to the house where he was born. In the last ten years he had been away a good deal from that house,––four years at Groton, four at Harvard,––but, even so, the house had always remained in the background of his consciousness as a fixed point.

Nora opened the door for him, as she had for twenty years.

“Are you to be here for dinner, sir?” she inquired.

“No, Nora,” he answered; “I shall dine out to-night.”

Nora appeared uneasy.

“The cook, sir, has received a letter––a very queer sort of letter, sir––from a lawyer gentleman.”

“Eh?”

“He said she was to keep two accounts, sir: one for the servants’ table and one for the house.”

“Oh, that’s probably from old Barton.”

“Barton––yes, sir, that was the name. Shall I bring you the letter, sir?”

“Don’t bother, Nora. It’s all right. He’s my new bookkeeper.”

“Very well, sir. Then you’ll give orders for what you want?”

“Yes, Nora.”

In the library an open fire was burning brightly on the hearth, as always it had been kept burning for his father. With his hands behind his back, he stood before it and gazed around the big room. It seemed curiously empty with the old man gone. The machinery of the house as adjusted by him still continued to run on smoothly. And yet, where at certain hours he should have been, he was not. It was uncanny.

It was a little after one; Don determined to change his clothes and stroll downtown for luncheon––possibly at Sherry’s. He was always sure there of running across some one he knew.

He went to his room and dressed with some care, and then walked down to Forty-fourth Street. Before deciding to enter the dining-room, 15 however, he stood at the entrance a moment to see if there was any one there he recognized. Jimmy Harndon saw him and rose at once.

“Hello, Jimmy,” Don greeted him.

“Hello, Don. You came in the nick of time. Lend me ten, will you?”

“Sure,” answered Don.

He 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 16 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 17 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 18 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.