s how to turn everything to advantage. I
denied myself everything; lived on two bits a day, I did, and put my
savings to work. The cents and the dollars are good and willing little
servants if you make them work for you. I watched 'em grow and grow.
That was my young man's fun."

Evan looking at him thought: "You are an object-lesson all right, old
man, but not just the way you think."

The current of Deaves' thoughts changed. "You're a strong boy," he
said, with a glance at Evan's stout frame. He felt of his biceps
through the thin coat. "Hm!" he said scornfully. "I suppose you're
proud of your strength. I suppose you spend the best part of your days
exercising. Waste of time! Waste of time! A strong man never comes
to anything. They're simple, mostly. It's the head that counts! How
many of those ruffians did you knock down?"

"Not any," said Evan carelessly. "They ducked."

"Well, you're a good boy. You stick to me, and I'll show you something
better than messing in colours. I'll show you how to make money!"

CHAPTER II

A RICH MAN'S HOUSE

They rode up to Fifty-Ninth street, and transferring to a cross-town
car, got off at the Plaza. Evan's subconsciousness registered the fact
that the little fellow in grey was still travelling their way, but he
took no particular notice of him. Deaves led the way to one of the
magnificent mansions that embellish the neighbourhood. He handed his
bundle to Evan.

"You carry it," he said. "Maud always makes a fuss when I bring
bundles home."

"Who is Maud?" asked Evan.

"My son's wife; a great society woman."

"You want me to come in with you then?" said Evan.

"Yes, you're a good boy. I want to give you something."

Evan was surprised. "A dime, or even a quarter!" he thought, smiling
to himself. Nevertheless he went willingly enough, filled with a great
curiosity.

The house was a showy affair of grey sandstone built in the style of a
French chateau. But Evan's trained eye perceived many lapses of taste;
it was not even well-built; the window-casings were of wood when they
should have been of stone; the side of the house, plainly visible from
the street, was of common yellow brick. It looked like a jerry-built
palace for a parvenu. Evan wondered how the old money-lender had come
to be stuck with it.

"My son's house," said Deaves with a queer mixture of pride and scorn.
"I live with them. Sinful waste!"

He avoided the front door