“And when he didn't pay it back and these buzzards learned you had quit your father's house they employed Gadgem to pick your bones.”
“Yes—it seems so; but, Uncle George, it's due them!” exclaimed Harry—“they ought to have their money. I would never have taken a dollar—or bought a thing if I had not supposed my father would pay for them.” There was no question as to the boy's sense of justice—every intonation showed it.
“Of course it's due—due by you, too—not your father; that's the worst of it. And if he refuses to assume it—and he has—it is still to be paid—every cent of it. The question is how the devil is it to be paid—and paid quickly. I can't have you pointed out as a spendthrift and a dodger. No, this has got to be settled at once.”
He threw himself into a chair, his mind absorbed in the effort to find some way out of the difficulty. The state of his own bank account precluded all relief in that direction. To borrow a dollar from the Patapsco on any note of hand he could offer was out of the question, the money stringency having become still more acute. Yet help must be had, and at once. Again he unfolded the slip and ran his eyes over the items, his mind in deep thought, then he added in an anxious tone:
“Are you aware, Harry, that this list amounts to several thousand dollars?”
“Yes—I saw it did. I had no idea it was so much. I never thought anything about it in fact. My father always paid—paid for anything I wanted.” Neither did the young fellow ever concern himself about the supply of water in the old well at Moorlands. His experience had been altogether with the bucket and the gourd: all he had had to do was to dip in.
Again St. George ruminated. It had been many years since he had been so disturbed about any matter involving money.
“And have you any money left, Harry?”
“Not much. What I have is in my drawer upstairs.”
“Then I'll lend you the money.” This came with a certain spontaneity—quite as if he had said to a companion who had lost his umbrella—“Take mine!”