“Well, that's not the first time men have been in that position,” Jack replied in a hopeful tone. “Is there anything more,—something you are keeping back?”
“Yes,—a good deal more. I'm afraid I'll have to let go. If I do I'm ruined.”
Jack kept silent for a moment. Various ways of raising money to help his friend passed in review, none of which at the moment seemed feasible or possible.
“How much will make your account good?” he asked after a pause.
“About ten thousand dollars.”
Jack leaned forward in his chair. “Ten thousand dollars!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Why, Garry—how in the name of common-sense did you get in as deep as that?”
“Because I was a damned fool!”
Again there was silence, during which Garry fumbled for a match, opened his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he said slowly, as he tossed the burnt end of the match from him:
“You said something, Jack, about some of your friends helping. Could Mr. MacFarlane?”
“No,—he hasn't got it,—not to spare. I was thinking of another kind of help when I spoke. I supposed you had got into debt, or something, and were depending on your commissions to pull you out, and that some new job was hanging fire and perhaps some of us could help as we did on the church.”