determined to change his clothes and stroll downtown for luncheon––possibly at Sherry’s. He was always sure there of running across some one he knew.

He went to his room and dressed with some care, and then walked down to Forty-fourth Street. Before deciding to enter the dining-room, 15 however, he stood at the entrance a moment to see if there was any one there he recognized. Jimmy Harndon saw him and rose at once.

“Hello, Jimmy,” Don greeted him.

“Hello, Don. You came in the nick of time. Lend me ten, will you?”

“Sure,” answered Don.

He sought his bill-book. It was empty. For a moment he was confused.

“Oh, never mind,” said Jimmy, perceiving his embarrassment. “I’ll ’phone Dad to send it up by messenger. Bit of fool carelessness on my part. You’ll excuse me?”

Harndon hurried off to the telephone.

Don stared at his empty pocket-book, at the head waiter, who still stood at the door expectantly, and then replaced the empty wallet in his pocket. There was no use waiting here any longer. He could not dine, if he wished. Never before in his life had he been confronted by such a situation. Once or twice he had been in Harndon’s predicament, but that had meant no more to him than it meant to Harndon––nothing but a temporary embarrassment. The difference 16 now was that Harndon could still telephone his father and that he could not. Here was a significant distinction; it was something he must think over.

Don went on to the Harvard Club. He passed two or three men he knew in the lobby, but shook his head at their invitation to join them. He took a seat by himself before an open fire in a far corner of the lounge. Then he took out his bill-book again, and examined it with some care, in the hope that a bill might have slipped in among his cards. The search was without result. Automatically his father’s telephone number suggested itself, but that number now was utterly without meaning. A new tenant already occupied those offices––a tenant who undoubtedly would report to the police a modest request to forward to the Harvard Club by messenger a hundred dollars.

He was beginning to feel hungry––much hungrier than he would have felt with a pocket full of money. Of course his credit at the club was good. He could have gone into the dining-room and ordered what he wished. But credit took on a new meaning. Until now it had been 17 nothing but a trifling convenience, because at the end of the month he had only to forward his bill to his father. But that could not be done any longer.

He could also have gone to any one of a dozen men of his acquaintance and borrowed from five to fifty dollars. But it was one thing to borrow as he had in the past, and another to borrow in his present circumstances. He had no right to borrow. The whole basis of his credit was gone.

The situation was, on the face of it, so absurd that the longer he thought it over the more convinced he became that Barton had made some mistake. He decided to telephone Barton.

It was with a sense of relief that Don found the name of Barton & Saltonstall still in the telephone-book. It would not have surprised him greatly if that too had disappeared. It was with a still greater sense of relief that he finally heard Barton’s voice.

“Look here,” he began. “It seems to me there must be some misunderstanding somewhere. Do you realize that I’m stony broke?”

“Why, no,” answered Barton. “I thought 18 you showed me the matter of thirteen dollars or so.”

“I did; but that’s gone, and all I have now is the matter of thirteen cents or so.”

“I’m sorry,” answered Barton. “If a small loan would be of any temporary advantage––”

“Hang it!” cut in Don. “You don’t