There was another silent pressure of the hand.
“Nor will I ask you to do so. But there is something wrong somewhere. Oh, Roy! If I could do—if I could share—look here, Roy,” he at last blurted out, boy-fashion, “look here. I intend to give twenty dollars—let me put ten of it under your name—do let me.”
“No, no, Jack," said Roy, after a few moments of silence which his emotion compelled him to observe; "no, you must not do that. I can't explain, but come what may I want you not to misunderstand me. Whatever you may hear or see I want you not to lose faith in me," and Roy Henning held out his hands to his friend, while there was a hungry, eagerly hungry, look in his eyes.
There was, of course, no absolute reason why Roy Henning could not have given his entire confidence to his friend. His father had made no such restriction in the test he had imposed. It was Roy's own peculiar temperament which prevented him from confiding in any one; in consequence his trials were in reality much more severe than even his father could have foreseen.
“Have faith in you! Believe in you! Well, I should guess. I don't understand it all—your refusing to play, and this—this small donation, and everything; but, believe in you! Roy, I would as soon cease to believe in myself.”
Roy's eyes were hot, and his lips were dry.
“Thanks, old man. I knew you would. I can't explain—yet. But as long as you have confidence in me I'll go through it all right. God bless you, Jack.”
Young Beecham was more mystified than ever at this exhibition of emotion, but he felt at the moment something like the knight of old who sought quarrels to vindicate the fair name of the lady of his heart. To make the simile more in accordance with our own more prosaic times, Jack Beecham became Henning's champion, and went around for several days with a metaphorical chip on his shoulder, daring any one to come and knock it off. Of course, the chip represented Roy Henning's actions and intentions.
After this interview, Roy looked a long time out of the study-hall window.