Jared shook his head as if denying some discreditable imputation.
“I’ve had nothing to do with the Boy Scouts since the day I was kicked out of—that is, since I left the Black Wolf troop in New York.”
“Dum glad of it, though you never tole me what you quit for,” muttered the old man.
“But to get back to that money,” said Jared; “as I told you when I got back from the Isthmus, I need it. Need it bad, too, or I wouldn’t ask you.”
“Makes no diff’rence. What d’ye want it fer,—hey?” he repeated, coming back to his original question.
Jared decided that there was nothing for it but to tell the truth.
“To go over what I told you the other night once more, I’m in debt. Debts I ran up on the Isthmus,” was the rejoinder. “A chap can’t live down there for nothing you know, and—”
“By heck! You got a dern good salary as Mr. Mainwaring’s sec’ty, didn’t yer, an’ a chance ter learn engin-e-ring thrun in. You git fired fer misbehavin’ yerself an’ then yer come down on the old man fer money. I ain’t goin’ ter stand it, I ain’t, and that’s flat!”
The old man knocked the ashes out of his half-smoked pipe with unnecessary violence. Jared, eying him askance, saw that his father was working himself up into what Jared termed “a tantrum.” Taking another tack, he resumed.
“Sho, pop! It ain’t as if you weren’t going to get it back. And there’ll be interest at six per cent., too.”