ent's positive instructions. The man who
wants to buy is Presby!"

For one black, unworthy instant, Dick looked out of the window,
wondering if it were possible that Joan had known of her father's
efforts, and had withheld the information. Then the memory of that
gentle face, the candid eyes, her courageous advice, and--last of
all--the kiss and prayer on her lips, made him mentally reproach
himself for the thought. But he remembered that he still owed
affection and deference to the stanch old man who sat before him, who
had been his benefactor in an hour of need, and backed faith with
money.

"Well, sir," he said, turning to meet the kindly eyes, "what do you
think of it?"

"Think of it? Think of it?" Sloan replied, raising his voice. "I'll
tell you my answer. 'You sit down,' I said, 'and write this man Presby
that I knew no one in connection with the Croix d'Or but the son of
the man who many times befriended me, in desperate situations when I
needed it! That I was paying back to the son what I was unfortunately
prevented from paying back to the father--a constant gratitude! That
I'd see him or any other man in their graves before I'd sell Richard
Townsend out in that way. That I'd back Dick Townsend on the Croix
d'Or as long as he wanted me to, and that when he gave that up, I'd
still back him on any other mine he said was good!' That's what I
said!"

He had lost his calm, club poise, and was again the virulent business
man of that Wall Street battle, waged daily, where men must have force
or fail to survive. Dick saw in him the man who was, the man who at
times had shaken the financial world with his desperate bravery and
daring, back in the days when giants fought for the beginnings of
supremacy. He felt very inexperienced and young, as he looked at this
veteran with scars, and impulsively rose to his feet and held out his
hand. He was almost dumb with gratitude.

"I shouldn't have asked you to say so much," he said. "I am--well--I
am sort of down and out with it all! I feel a little bit as I did when
the Cornell eleven piled on top of me in the annual, when I played
half-back."

"Hey! And wasn't that a game!" the old man suddenly enthused, with
sparkling eyes. "And how your father and I did yell and howl and beat
the heads of those in front! Gad! I remember the old man had a silk
hat, and he banged it up and down on a bald head in front until there
was nothing but a rim left, and then looked as sheepish a