"Do you really mean it, Uncle Randolph?" Jack asked half breathlessly.
"I do mean it, my boy, though I'm afraid the moral of it all's pretty crooked. I had been led in with a cleverness that gives me cold shivers. That talk at the club that I'd heard as if by accident had all been planned out, and so on for a lot more things I won't go into. Mellington's blown his brains out, and poor old Foster isn't up to anything but cadging for drinks at the club, and telling how he was roped in when he was drunk, poor old fellow! I was so sure of Orion that I'd have put in the last dollar of yours or mine I could have laid hands on! I feel like a humbug when men congratulate me on knowing enough to keep out of the mess."
"And I saved you?" cried Jack, bending forward with boyish eagerness.
"Yes, you rascally jackanapes; but small credit to you!"
Jack sent the log up into the air, and, bounding to his feet, caught it as it fell.
"Whoop!" he shouted. "Oh, how glad I am old Tillington wrote that letter and I carried it off!"
The President laughed with responsive joyousness, but reminded his ebullient nephew that there were clerks in the other room. He began to ask questions about the voyage, but the clock struck one and Jack recalled the fact that Taberman was waiting for him at the Roundheads, and probably was on tenterhooks for his news.
"You'll come to luncheon, won't you, sir?" he pleaded.
"That'll look well," retorted his uncle with humorous derision. "Everybody knows about your running off with the Merle—Bardale couldn't hold his tongue—and I shall be accused of condoning a felony."
Nevertheless they set out arm in arm for the club, and as they went the President informed his secretary that he should not be back at the office that afternoon.