If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position as the head of his house, then this child was the stake to play for, Petrie decided.
"Well, think of him—of his future. He has the right to the education of a gentleman, to the surroundings of culture and refinement."
As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little chaps, the feet in their worn moccasins, the coarse flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look and understood. He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he lifted him down and held him in his arms.
"One moment, Mr. Petrie. I see your drift," he savagely answered. "But you sha'n't do it, sir. You sha'n't. I won't listen."
But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim's vulnerable point, and that he was capable of making the sacrifice for the boy.
"I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as the advocate of your child." He told himself he was justified in asking what he did.
"Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined man—stone broke, as we say out here. I had to begin my life all over again. But I had Hal, his love and his life to live in day by day, and now you want that, too. I can't do it. I know it's selfish, but life owes me something, and that's all I ask. I can't let him go. I can't—I can't!"
But Malcolm Petrie persisted. "You're responsible for that child's future. You don't want him to grow up to blame you—to look back to his youth and his father with bitterness, perhaps hate."
Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the tiny face, cried, "You'll never do that, will you, Hal, my boy?"
"What, daddy?"