It was not until the hurried overhauling of a mass of papers beneath his uncle's hand, and the subsequent finding of a certain stray sheet by Pawson, that the boy was aroused to a sense of the gravity of the situation. And even then his interest did not become acute until, the missing document identified, St. George had turned to Pawson and, pointing to an item halfway down the column, had said in a lowered tone, as if fearing to be overheard: “You have the receipts, have you not, for everything on this list?--Slater's account too, and Hampson's?” “They are in the file beside you, sir.” “Well, that's a comfort, anyhow.” “And the balance”--here he examined a small book which lay open beside him--“amounting to”--he paused--“is of course locked up in their vaults?” Harry had craned his head in instant attention. His quickened ears had caught two familiar names. It was Slater who had loaned him the five hundred dollars which he gave to Gilbert, which his father had commended him for borrowing; and it was Hampson who had sold him the wretched horse that had stumbled and broken his leg and had afterwards to be shot. “Slater, did you say, Uncle George--and Hampson? Aren't they my old accounts?” “Quite right, Mr. Rutter--quite right, sir.” St. George tried to stop him with a frown, but Pawson's face was turned towards Harry and he failed to get the signal. “Quite right, and quite lucky; they were both important items in Mr. Gadgem's list, and both checks passed through the bank and were paid before the smash came.” The tones of Pawson's voice, the twisting together of his bony hands in a sort of satisfied contentment, and the weary look on his uncle's face were the opening of so many windows in the boy's brain. At the same instant one of those creepy chills common to a man when some hitherto undiscovered vista of impending disaster widens out before him, started at the base of Harry's spine, crept up his shoulder-blades, shivered along his arms, and lost itself in his benumbed fingers. This was followed by a lump in his throat that nearly strangled him. He left his chair and touched Pawson on the shoulder. “Does this mean, Mr. Pawson--this money being locked up in the bank vaults and not coming out for months--and may be never--does it mean that Mr. Temple--well, that Uncle George--won't have enough money to live on?” There was an anxious, vibrant tone in Harry's voice that aroused St. George to a sense of the boy's share in the calamity and the privations he must suffer because of it. Pawson hesitated and was about to belittle the gravity of the situation when St. George stopped him. “Yes--tell him--tell him everything, I have no secrets from Mr. Rutter. Stop!--I'll tell him. It means, Harry”--and a brave smile played about his lips--“that we will have to live on hog and hominy, may be, or pretty nigh it--certainly for a while--not bad, old fellow, when you get accustomed to it. Aunt Jemima makes very good hominy and--”