“I am very sorry to hear that, my son,” was the kindly reply. “Probably you are not feeling well. You had better stop in and see Dr. Smith on your way from school this afternoon.”
“No, no; it’s not that,” stammered Herbert; “it’s something I want to tell you. When I found that I could not sleep I got out of bed—”
“I am in a hurry now, Herbert,” exclaimed his father, talking very rapidly and moving towards the door. “I must get down and see Mr. Coke. You can tell me this story when you come home from school this afternoon.”
And the next moment the street door closed with a bang and Mr. Harkness was on his way to the bank. Herbert sat down in a chair feeling very much disappointed. He felt somehow or other that his father had become involved, and if he had been able to speak, that much mystery might have been dissipated.
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH DAVID HARKINS BECOMES THE VICTIM OF PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES
David Harkins left his home that morning, walking rapidly and gaily humming a tune to himself. He felt better and happier than he had for many weeks before. The thought of canceling the note and freeing himself from the obligation which he was under to John Black lifted an immense weight from his mind and enabled him to take a cheerful view of life. As he walked along he mentally matured plans for increasing his income during the year to come and placing his family in a position where they would not be compelled to feel concerned regarding the future.
In a few minutes he reached the office of Horace Coke, the lawyer, who was installed in a little second story room of a modest house on the main street. The apartment was very much like the lawyer—simple and old-fashioned, but entirely adequate for the needs of the law. There was a plain, flat-top desk, littered with legal papers. An office boy who hoped eventually to become a member of the bar, sat copying a deed; and the silence in the room was broken by the steady scratching of his pen. The shelves about the room were filled with law books covered with calfskin and bearing their titles in little gold letters on a slip of black over what might be called their backbones. Mr. Coke himself was puffing away at a big black cigar—which, by the way, was his only dissipation. He was looking over some papers when David Harkins entered the room, but jumped from his chair immediately and greeted the newcomer with a hearty:
“Hello there, Dave! What’s bringing you out so early in the morning?”
“Some legal business, Horace,” replied the other laughingly.
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the venerable attorney, shaking his head in a doubtful manner. “I always advise my friends to keep out of the law. It’s a bad business. It takes up all your money, and rarely gives you any good results.”