“That's quite dramat——”again began Mr. Shalford, but suddenly checked himself. He now saw there was something woefully wrong.
A moment before Roy Henning had a strong inclination to burst out laughing at his ridiculous position, but his self-control was too great to permit him to give way to the nervous hilarity of misfor
tune. Just as Mr. Shalford entered the room the thought flashed across his mind of the consequences at home for him. What would his stern father say! Then a momentary thought of his mother's grief—and he gave way.
Who can blame him? Roy was as yet only a boy, after all. At present he lacked the stability and poise of later years. Fifteen or twenty years later he would have borne the crash of a financial misfortune with a certain kind of equanimity. But he was young yet, living in boy-world, with all a boy's thoughts and feelings. And he wept. Do not blame him. It is more than probable that under the same circumstances you and I, and a hundred others, if we ever had a spark of boy nature, or boy feeling about us, would have done the same, and not thought it derogatory either.
Mr. Shalford, putting his hand on Roy's shoulder in a kindly way, said:
“What is wrong, Roy? What has happened? Your friends do not want to see you in this way.”
The poor boy raised his head from his arm.
“It's gone. The money's gone. My character is ruined,”
“That is not so, my boy. Be sensible. No one in his senses will ever accuse you. How much was taken?”
“All, sir, except seven dollars in my pocket.”