“I am hungry, and cannot talk upon an empty stomach. Come, let us have some dinner, and over it we can come to some understanding.”
Clemmons frowned, but replied:
“Do I understand that this is an invitation for me to dine with you?”
“On the contrary, I am to dine with you, for I have not a dollar to my name.”
“Well, as this is to be our last meeting, Breslin, I will honor you.”
They entered the dining room together, and a good dinner with wine was ordered.
“Now, what do you wish to say, Breslin?” asked Scott Clemmons, an hour after the dinner had been dispatched, Breslin eating with a degree of relish that showed he was, indeed, hungry, while Clemmons ate sparingly, seeming nervous and ill at ease.
“I wish to go West and grow up with the country, or go to South America and get a berth there, and I need just one thousand dollars to go with,” said Breslin, rendered bolder by the wine he had drank.
“Won’t your father give it to you?”
“Not a dollar.”