"But--good lord, man! You're not losing your nerve, are you--just because business has slumped a little? What about your profession?"

"As to that," David cleared his throat again, "as to that, I think we may say--safely--I haven't made good."

"Oh, piffle! You're too young a man to say a fool thing like that. If it's this note that's bothering you--" He stopped, because David had turned and Jim saw his eyes.

"The note is only part of it. But, if you don't mind, we'll not discuss it. I'll be glad if you can help me out. And I'll try to cut this loan down a little next time--somehow. I'll not keep you any longer now." David moved toward the door. "Remember us to Mrs. Jim, won't you?" And he went hastily out.

"Why, d.a.m.n it!" muttered Jim, left alone. "This is bad. This is entirely too bad."

David went to a long weary day at his office, where he had nothing to do but sit at his desk and gaze into s.p.a.ce. Shirley was mistaken. Her words had not been filed away in the remote pigeonhole, "To Be Forgotten."

For a while Jim stared frowningly at the crumpled note in his hand.

Then he began a long series of telephone calls.

The thing was still on his mind that evening when Mrs. Jim descended from the children's dormitory and silence reigned at last through the house.

"You might as well out with it now as later," she observed, as she took up her sewing. "What has been bothering you all evening?"

"I've been congratulating myself on my cleverness in the matter of choosing a wife."

Mrs. Jim surveyed him suspiciously. "What put that into your head?"

"Davy Quentin--by way of contrast, I suppose."

"What about Davy?"

"I'm afraid he's got into a pretty sour pickle."

"He's been there for four years. Though he didn't always know it.

What is the particular development now?"

"Debt, insolvency--in fact, genteel poverty."

"And worry, discontent and disillusionment at home. I've been afraid of that."

"He didn't say so."

"Davy wouldn't, of course."

"It must be pretty bad, for he wants to give up his profession and take a job. You know, Davy's liking for his work amounted almost to a mania."

"Does he _have_ to give it up?"

"It doesn't meet their needs--at least, their requirements. And worst of all, he's got it into his head that he hasn't made good."

"But he has made good. He has done good work. And he has talent.

Hasn't he?"

"In a way. But there's only one divine spark nowadays--push. He hasn't that. He prefers to let his work speak and push for itself.

Poor Davy!"

"Poor Davy! But you'll get him a position, of course."

"There are times," remarked Jim, "when you're as innocent and credulous as Davy himself. It isn't so simple. He's fitted only for his own line. And there are very few men willing to pay a living salary to a greenhorn just for learning a business. In fact, after to-day I'm ready to say there is none."

"Poor Davy!" Mrs. Jim repeated softly. She threaded a needle and bent over her sewing. Jim watched the swift deft fingers proudly; they had acquired the habit of industry in a day when the Blaisdells had had to wrestle with the problem of slender income. After a few minutes'

silence she let her sewing fall to her lap.

"I think, Jim, if you'll have the machine around I'll go down-town with you in the morning."

Jim sighed in relief. "You've solved it, then?"

"I want to call on my latest acquisition. You remember asking, 'Why is Jonathan Radbourne?'"

Jim nodded, with the smile the thought of that gentleman always evoked.

"The answer is, of course--Davy."

"I'm wondering," said Jim thoughtfully, "just how Davy would like it if he knew you were going to beg a job for him."

"I'm not going to beg a job. I will merely state the case to Mr.

Radbourne."

"Suppose he concludes that making a job for Davy is too high a price to pay even for your ladyship's favor?"

Mrs. Jim smiled confidently. "Mr. Radbourne and I understand each other. And he doesn't have to pay for my favor. I have made him a present of it."

Two mornings later David found a note from Jim, asking him to call at the bank. David obeyed the summons at once.

"Davy," Jim began, "did you mean what you said the other day about a job?"

"Yes," David answered quietly.

"Well, I took you at your word. And I think I've landed you one.

Radbourne & Company want a good man to do mechanical drawing. They'll pay a hundred and fifty to the right man at the start, and they'll raise that later if you turn out well. Do you care to try it on?"

"Yes," David said again.

"I still think you're making a mistake--but that's your business.

Shall we go around to Radbourne's now?"

"Yes."

To those three monosyllables David added nothing during the few minutes' walk. Had Jim been leading him to the prisoner's dock David could not have taken less joy in the journey. Jim discoursed of the judge before whom the prisoner was being led.

"Odd fish, this Radbourne. d.i.n.ky little man. With whiskers. You're apt to think he's a fool at first. But that's a mistake. He isn't at all--I'd hate to lose his account. He makes machines in a small way, but very well _and_ quite profitably. His father made a reputation for turning out high-cla.s.s work and the son keeps it up. We got to know him at St. Mark's. Mrs. Jim says he's the only man of real charity she knows--not even excepting me."

David forgot to smile.