The man of Maine's face was working painfully again; he was struggling for control; his feelings were deep, tender, loyal; he was capable of any sacrifice for a friend.
"Father Honoré—I don't want to butt in anywhere—into what ain't my business, but I do want to know if you're going to New York?"
"Yes, I am."
"Are you going to try to see him?"
"I'm going to try to find him—for his mother's sake and his own."
Octavius Buzzby grasped his hand and wrung it. "God bless you!" He fumbled with his left hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a package. "Here, you take this—it's honest money, all mine—you use it for Champney—to help out, you know, in any way you see fit."
Father Honoré was so moved he could not speak at once.
"If Mr. Googe could know what a friend he has in you, Mr. Buzzby," he said at last, "I don't think he could wholly despair, whatever might come,"—he pressed the package back into Octavius' hand,—"keep it with you, it's safer; and I promise you if I need it I will call on you." Suddenly his indignation got the better of him—"But this is outrageous!"—he spoke in a low voice but vehemently,—"Mrs. Champney is abundantly able to do this for her nephew, whereas you—"
"You're right, sir, it's a damned outrage—I beg your pardon, Father Honoré, I hadn't ought to said that, but I've seen so much, and I'm all broke up, I guess, with what I've been through since yesterday. I went to her myself then and made bold to ask her to help with her riches that's bringing her in eight per cent, and told her some plain truths—"
"You went—!" Father Honoré exclaimed; he had almost said "too," but caught himself in time.