Steve looked at him suspiciously, but there was no trace of sarcasm in the captain's face or voice. The boy scowled.

"Ugh!" he grunted.

"What's the 'ugh' for? See here, you ain't hintin' that young Dunn was cal'latin' to marry Caroline just for her money, are you? Of course you ain't! Why, you and he are the thickest sort of chums. You wouldn't chum with a feller who would play such a trick as that on your own sister."

Stephen's scowl deepened. He thrust his hands into his pocket, and shifted his feet uneasily.

"You don't understand," he said. "People don't do things here as they do where you come from."

"I understand that, all right," with dry emphasis. "I've been here long enough to understand that. But maybe I don't understand _you_. Heave ahead, and make it plain."

"Well--well, then--I mean this: I don't know that Mal was after Caro's money, but--but he had a right to expect _some_. If he didn't, why, then her not telling him until after they were married wouldn't have made any difference. And--and if her tellin' him beforehand _should_ make a difference and he wanted to break the engagement, she's just romantic fool enough to let him."

"Well?"

"_Well?_ If she doesn't marry him, who's going to take care of her?

What's going to become of _me_? We haven't a cent. What kind of a guardian are you? Do you want us to starve?"

He was shouting again. The captain was calm. "Oh," he said, "I guess it won't reach to the starvation point. I'm a pretty tough old critter, 'cordin' to your estimate, but I shouldn't let my brother's children starve. If the wust comes to the wust, there's always a home and plenty to eat for you both at South Denboro."

This offer did not appear to comfort the young gentleman greatly. His disgust was evident.

"South Denboro!" he repeated, scornfully. "Gad!... South Denboro!"

"Yup. But we'll let South Denboro alone for now and stick to New York.

What is it you expect me to do? What are you drivin' at?"

Stephen shook a forefinger in his guardian's face.

"I expect you to make her stick to her engagement," he cried. "And make her make him stick. She can, can't she? It's been announced, hasn't it?

Everybody knows of it! She's got the right--the legal right to hold him, hasn't she?"

His uncle regarded him with a quizzical smile. "Why, ye-es," he answered, "I cal'late she has, maybe. Course, there's no danger of his wantin' to do such a thing, but if he should I presume likely we could make it uncomfortable for him, anyhow. What are you hankerin' for, Steve--a breach-of-promise suit? I've always understood those sort of cases were kind of unpleasant--for everybody but the newspapers."

The boy was in deadly earnest. "Pleasant!" he repeated. "Is any of this business pleasant? You make her act like a sensible girl! You're her guardian, and you make her! And, after that, if he tries to hedge, you tell him a few things. You can hold him! Do it! _Do_ it!"

Captain Elisha turned on his heel and began pacing up and down the room.

His nephew watched him eagerly.

"Well," he demanded, after a moment, "what are we going to do? Are we going to make him make good?"

The captain paused. "Steve," he answered, deliberately, "I ain't sure as we are. And, as I've said, if he's got a spark of decency, it won't be necessary for us to try. If it should be--if it should be--"

"Well, _if_ it should be?"

"Then we can try, that's all. Maybe you run a course a little different from me, Stevie; you navigate 'cordin' to your ideas, and I do by mine.

But in some ways we ain't so fur apart. Son," with a grim nod, "you rest easy on one thing--the Corcoran Dunn fleet is goin' to show its colors."

CHAPTER XIX

Caroline sat by the library window, her chin in her hand, drearily watching the sleet as it beat against the panes, and the tops of the Park trees lashing in the wind. Below, in the street, the trolleys pa.s.sed in their never-ending procession, the limousines and cabs whizzed forlornly by, and the few pedestrians pushed dripping umbrellas against the gale. A wet, depressing afternoon, as hopeless as her thoughts, and growing darker and more miserable hourly.

Stephen, standing by the fire, kicked the logs together and sent a shower of sparks flying.

"Oh, say something, Caro, do!" he snapped testily. "Don't sit there glowering; you give me the horrors."

She roused from her reverie, turned, and tried to smile.

"What shall I say?" she asked.

"I don't know. But say something, for heaven's sake! Talk about the weather, if you can't think of anything more original."

"The weather isn't a very bright subject just now."

"I didn't say it was; but it's _a_ subject. I hope to goodness it doesn't prevent Sylvester's keeping his appointment. He's late, as it is."

"Is he?" wearily. "I hadn't noticed."

"Of course you hadn't. You don't notice anything. It doesn't help matters to pull a long face and go moping around wiping your eyes.

You've got to use philosophy in times like this. It's just as hard for me as it is for you; and I try to make the best of it, don't I?"

She might have reminded him that his philosophy was a very recent acquisition. When the news of their poverty first came he was the one who raved and sobbed and refused to contemplate anything less direful than slow starvation or quick suicide. She had soothed and comforted then. Since the previous evening, when he had gone out, in spite of her protestations, and left her alone, his manner had changed. He was still nervous and irritable, but no longer threatened self-destruction, and seemed, for some unexplained reason, more hopeful and less desperate.

Sylvester had 'phoned, saying that he would call at the apartment at two, and since Stephen had received the message he had been in a state of suppressed excitement, scarcely keeping still for five minutes at a time.

"It is just as hard for me as it is for you, isn't it?" he repeated.

"Yes, Steve, I suppose it is."

"You suppose? Don't you know? Oh, do quit thinking about Mal Dunn and pay attention to me."

She did not answer. He regarded her with disgust.

"You are thinking of Mal, of course," he declared. "What's the use? You know what _I_ think: you were a fool to write him that letter."

"Don't, Steve; please don't."

"Ugh!"

"Don't you know he didn't get the letter? I was so nervous and over-wrought that I misdirected it."

"Pooh! Has he ever stayed away from you so long before? Or his precious mother, either? Why doesn't she come to see you? She scarcely missed a day before this happened. Nonsense! I guess he got it all right."

"Steve, stop! stop! Don't dare speak like that. Do you realize what you are insinuating? You don't believe it! You know you don't! Shame on you!

I'm ashamed of my brother! No! not another word of that kind, or I shall leave the room."