“Ah, Jack!—the very man I wanted to see,” cried Breen. “I was going to write you. There's something doing up in that ore country. Better drop in to-morrow, I may be able to handle it for you, after all.”
“I am sorry, sir, but it's not for sale,” said Jack, trying to smother his glee.
“Why?” demanded Breen bluntly.
“I have sold it to Mr. Robert Guthrie.”
“Guthrie! The devil you say!—When?”
“To-day. The final papers are signed to-morrow. Excuse me, I must catch my boat—” and away he went, his cup now brimming over, leaving Breen biting his lips and muttering to himself as he gazed after him.
“Guthrie!—My customer! Damn that boy—I might have known he would land on his feet.”
But Jack kept on home to his sweetheart, most of the way in the air.
Down in the little room all this time in the rear of the tailor's shop the two old men sat talking. Peter kept nothing back; his lips quivering again and another unbidden tear peeping over the edge of his eyelid when he told of Jack's offer.
“A dear boy, Isaac—yes, a dear boy. He never thinks with his head—only with his heart. Never has since I knew him. Impulsive, emotional, unpractical, no doubt—and yet somehow he always wins. Queer—very queer! He comes upstairs to me and I start out on a fool's errand. He goes down to you, and you hand him out your money. He gives it all away the next day, and then we have Guthrie doubling the price. Queer, I tell you, Isaac—extraordinary, that's what it is—almost uncanny.”