“I hope so,” was all the reply the young bank clerk made, but there was a world of expression in the way he said it. His face, too, looked the disappointment and sorrow he felt, and Bob rightly divined that the sorrow was more for Mr. Goldwin and his family than for himself.
It is safe to presume that Herbert thought long and regretfully of the probability of Mr. Goldwin being reduced to a state of poverty—of his being turned out of his luxurious home—of Ray, his daughter, being obliged to work for her living—of her young, sweet life being embittered by want and miserable surroundings, so out of keeping with her beauty and genial, sunny nature. And if he did think in this wise, what resolutions he formed for relieving her of such a life, and of restoring her to her proper place we can only imagine, for on this matter he said never a word, not even to Bob Hunter.
On the following morning, Bob Hunter handed Herbert a small roll of bills.
“What is this for?” said the latter.
“It’s for you,” replied Bob. “There’s only eight dollars in it, but you’ll perhaps need it, and then you’ll feel better with it in your pocket while looking for work.”
“But I cannot accept your money, Bob,” protested Herbert, with feelings of deep gratitude.
“Yes, you must, for you are out in the cold, and my business is good; and then, you know, I made most all of it yesterday out of the failures in Wall Street—out of your firm’s failure as much as any, probably, and that meant your failure to keep your place; so in a way I kinder made it out of you, and now I want you to have it again.”
Herbert’s eyes were now moist.
“Bob, you are very good and generous,” said he, rather huskily; “but you are not logical. I have no claim on your money, neither has any one. You made it in legitimate trade, and should not feel that it does not belong to you.”
“Well, I know I did; but I feel in a kind of way that it was made off of the misfortunes of others, you see.”