When General Flint was told of Ben’s good luck, he was quite delighted.
“The only regret I have, my lad,” he said, “is that you are now rich, and I shall not have the pleasure of helping you.”
“I will take the will for the deed, General Flint. I don’t think you would have allowed me to suffer.”
“Not much, my boy. I hope you will come out to Iowa next year and make a visit. I shall be glad to show you something of the great West.”
“I will come, general. I shall not soon forget your kindness to me when I needed a friend.”
Basil’s letter to Frank Mordaunt arrived at a critical moment. On account of some delay in the mail the two letters, Ben’s and Basil Wentworth’s, reached them the same day.
Things had gone badly with them. Frank had been laid up for ten days by an attack of the grip, and of course his earnings during that time were suspended. They had no money laid aside, and the rent was nearly due.
Frank was of a cheerful disposition, but he could not help feeling depressed.
“I don’t know how we are coming out, Frank,” said his mother sadly. “Life is such a struggle that I don’t derive much pleasure from it.”
“Wait till the clouds roll by, mother,” said Frank with forced gayety.