He looked up interrogatively, waiting for Max to speak. The boy did not know this for an insolent trick of “cute” business. Ensconced in his own lair, this moment of inhospitable silence on the part of the magnate was in itself an accusation, a test of strength, with a handicap on the newcomer.
The boy felt keenly this slap on the face. A quick glance at the visibly inquisitive youth, however, restored Max a trifle, for he felt quite his equal. Yet he had to summon all his “spunk” to open his dry lips and speak.
“I have a little business with you, Mr. Buckman; may I speak to you alone?”
“Walter, go and tell your mother to be ready in ten minutes, or we’ll be late. Now what is it, young man?” he questioned a little impatiently as the others left the room.
Max told his story; told it under the pitiless glare of many lights; told it haltingly, shamefacedly; and he was angry at himself for doing so badly. Why could he not speak up clearly, fearlessly, as he had spoken before?
The man looked him over silently. “So you’re a thief, are you?” he said scornfully. “A fool to boot, I should say. Why in thunder did you blurt it out? Why didn’t you keep quiet, and if you must pay conscience money, send it through the mail?”
“Because I was a thief! I thought then I’d rather steal than starve. But a kind woman made me ashamed of that. It is not so much to pay you, sir, what you never could have collected, as to regain my own self-respect that I did not send the money, but came myself to pay it.”
The man looked at him keenly, plainly interested now, but was still silent; and Max felt himself probed to his last thought. “That took a good deal of courage,” the man said at length. “How much do you think you owe me?”
“You must be the judge of that.” He told what food he took.
“How do I know that is all?”