“Serge, old man,” he said at length, “you have come to me like an angel from heaven, for never in my life have I needed a friend as at this very minute. I never half appreciated you before, but you may be certain that I do now. Oh, my dear fellow! if you could only know one part of how glad I am to see you!”
“Why, what is the matter?” inquired Serge, anxiously. “Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do to help you? How do you happen to be here of all places? The Seamew got in two days ago; but I didn’t find a single letter from New London, and I haven’t heard a word of news from there since we started for the coast.”
“Am I in trouble!” exclaimed Phil. “Well, I should say I am. I am in one of the very worst scrapes that ever a fellow got into. Can you help me? I rather think you can. I hope so, at any rate. You have helped me already more than I can tell. The mere sight of your face, the sound of your voice, and the clasp of your hand have banished half my troubles, and given me new courage to face the rest. Why, old man, a friend was what I needed more than anything in the world, and now that I have found one, everything seems possible.”
“You in trouble!” cried Serge, in amazement. It was hard to realize that this young hero of his admiration, the one who above all others had seemed so strong and self-reliant and free from care of any kind, could be in a position in which his humble aid could be of value.
“Indeed I am,” replied Phil; “and to begin with I haven’t a cent in the world, nor have I eaten a mouthful of food to-day. So if you have any money in your pockets, you will at once invite me to breakfast. After that I will tell you the whole story.”
“You poor old chap!” exclaimed Serge, to whom hunger was of all things the most unpleasant. “Of course I’ve got money”—he had just one dollar, which represented his entire stock of wealth—“and the ‘Poodle Dog’ is just around the corner.”
In another minute the lads were seated at a table in the best restaurant of Victoria, and Phil was giving the waiter a breakfast order that confirmed that individual in his previously formed opinion that Americans were not only the wealthiest people in the world, but were possessed of the most extraordinary appetites.
Although Serge, whose own breakfast had been eaten hours before, would willingly have shared another with his friend, a prudent regard for his finances compelled him to resist the temptation, and declare that he was not the least bit hungry. So he merely sat and watched with real pleasure Phil’s demolition of the very heartiest and most thoroughly enjoyable meal of his life. As he ate, his courage and natural buoyancy of spirits returned to him so fully, that when at length he pushed away his plate, declaring himself unable to eat another mouthful, he was again the self-reliant, independent, happy-go-lucky Phil Ryder whom Serge had known and admired in New London.
The bill for that breakfast amounted to exactly one dollar, and as Serge paid it, Phil wondered why he did not also tip the waiter, who had been unusually attentive. He was too polite to mention the matter, and concluded that his friend’s oversight must be the result of his early training.
Serge knew well enough what was expected of him, however, and felt uncomfortable until the restaurant was left behind and he was beyond reach of the waiter’s reproachful glance. “Now,” said he, as they gained the street, “let’s have your story. You haven’t told me one word of yourself and your troubles yet.”