Our discussion as we walked home that night was dismal enough. The brighter prospects which had seemed to dawn on Jack and his father appeared somehow suddenly clouded, and a sense of trouble hung over both our minds.
“One thing is certain,” said Jack, “I must tell the partners everything now.”
“Perhaps you are right—if there is any chance of his telling them. But he could surely hardly act so shamefully.”
“It may be too late, even now,” said Jack. “You know, when I was taken on at Hawk Street, and they asked me about my father, I said simply he was abroad. I’ve thought since it was hardly straightforward, and yet it didn’t seem necessary to tell them all about it.”
“Certainly not. Why should your prospects be ruined because your father—”
“Because my father,” said Jack, taking me up quietly, “had lost his? That’s what I thought. But perhaps they will think differently. At any rate, I will tell them.”
“If you do,” said I, “and they take it kindly, as I expect they will, I don’t see what more harm he can do you.”
“Unless,” said Jack, “he thinks it his duty to tell the proprietors of the Banner.”
“What possible good could that do him?” I asked.
“Why, he might as well think it his duty to tell Mary.”