tem for a long time. He could also have noted,
if he had thought of it, that his bearing had stiffened, over night,
and that his chin had lifted itself a shade. Arrived in the basement,
he was about to enter the breakfast room when he saw old Marsh in the dim
light of a corner of the hall, beckoning him with his finger to approach.
The blood welled slowly up in Tracy's cheek, and he said with a grade of
injured dignity almost ducal:

"Is that for me?"

"Yes."

"What is the purpose of it?"

"I want to speak to you--in private."

"This spot is private enough for me."

Marsh was surprised; and not particularly pleased. He approached and
said:

"Oh, in public, then, if you prefer. Though it hasn't been my way."

The boarders gathered to the spot, interested.

"Speak out," said Tracy. "What is it you want?"

"Well, haven't you--er--forgot something?"

"I? I'm not aware of it."

"Oh, you're not? Now you stop and think, a minute."

"I refuse to stop and think. It doesn't interest me. If it interests
you, speak out."

"Well, then," said Marsh, raising his voice to a slightly angry pitch,
"You forgot to pay your board yesterday--if you're bound to have it
public."

Oh, yes, this heir to an annual million or so had been dreaming and
soaring, and had forgotten that pitiful three or four dollars. For
penalty he must have it coarsely flung in his face in the presence of
these people--people in whose countenances was already beginning to dawn
an uncharitable enjoyment of the situation.

"Is that all! Take your money and give your terrors a rest."

Tracy's hand went down into his pocket with angry decision. But--it
didn't come out. The color began to ebb out of his face. The
countenances about him showed a growing interest; and some of them a
heightened satisfaction. There was an uncomfortable pause--then he
forced out, with difficulty, the words:

"I've--been robbed!"

Old Marsh's eyes flamed up with Spanish fire, and he exclaimed:

"Robbed, is it? That's your tune? It's too old--been played in this
house too often; everybody plays it that can't get work when he wants it,
and won't work when he can get it. Trot out Mr. Allen, somebody, and let
him take a toot at it. It's his turn next, he forgot, too, last night.
I'm laying for him."

One of the negro women came scrambling down stairs as pale as a sorrel
horse with consternation and excitement:

"Misto Marsh, Misto Allen's skipped out!