and was
waiting upstairs in his room for the feast to be over, squared his
shoulders, threw up his chin and, like many another crusader bent on
straightening the affairs of the world, started out to confront his
uncle. His visor was down, his lance in rest, his banner unfurled, the
scarf of the blessed damosel tied in double bow-knot around his trusty
right arm. Both knight and maid were unconscious of the scarf, and yet
if the truth be told it was Ruth's eyes that had swung him into battle.
Now he was ready to fight; to renounce the comforts of life and live
on a crust rather than be party to the crimes that were being daily
committed under his very eyes!

His uncle was in the library, having just bowed out his last guest,
when the boy strode in. About him were squatty little tables holding the
remnants of the aftermath of the feast--siphons and decanters and the
sample boxes of cigars--full to the lid when Parkins first passed them
(why fresh cigars out of a full box should have a better flavor than
the same cigars from a half-empty one has always been a mystery to the
Scribe).

That the dinner had been a success gastronomically, socially and
financially, was apparent from the beatific boozy smile that pervaded
Breen's face as he lay back in his easy-chair. To disturb a reverie
of this kind was as bad as riding rough-shod over some good father
digesting his first meal after Lent, but the boy's purpose was too lofty
to be blunted by any such considerations. Into the arena went his glove
and out rang his challenge.

"What I have got to say to you, Uncle Arthur, breaks my heart, but you
have got to listen to me! I have waited until they were all gone to tell
you."

Breen laid his glass on the table and straightened himself in his chair.
His brain was reeling from the wine he had taken and his hand unsteady,
but he still had control of his arms and legs.

"Well, out with it! What's it all about, Jack?"

"I heard this afternoon that my friend Gilbert was ruined in our office.
The presence of these men to-night makes me believe it to be true. If
it is true, I want to tell you that I'll never enter the office again as
long as I live!"

Breen's eyes flashed:

"You'll never enter!... What the devil is the matter with you,
Jack!--are you drunk or crazy?"

"Neither! And I want to tell you, sir, too, that I won't be pointed out
as having anything to do with such a swindling concern as the Mukton
Lode Company. You've