“That was bad,” said Hector, quietly, but he didn’t look shocked or terror-stricken, for this would probably have prevented any further confidence.
“It wasn’t exactly stealing,” said Gregory, apologetically, “for I knew he could keep back the money from my property. Still, he could represent it as such and have me arrested.”
“I don’t think he would do that.”
“I don’t want to run the risk. You see now why I don’t dare to go back to New York. But what on earth I am to do here I don’t know.”
“Couldn’t you get employment?” asked Hector, for he wished Gregory to understand his position fully.
“What! in this shabby suit? Respectable business men would take me for a hoodlum.”
Hector knew already that a “hoodlum” in San Francisco parlance is a term applied to street loafers from fifteen to twenty-five years of age, who are disinclined to work and have a premature experience of vice.
“Suppose you were assured that your uncle would receive you back and give you another chance?”
Gregory shook his head.
“I don’t believe he would, and I am afraid I don’t deserve it. No, I must try to get to the mines in some way. How are you fixed?” said Gregory, turning suddenly to Hector. “Could you spare a five-dollar gold piece for a chap that’s been unfortunate?”