“Garry, sit down and listen to me,” Jack said at last. “I am your oldest friend; no one you know thinks any more of you than I do, or will be more ready to help. Now, what troubles you?” “I tell you, Jack, I'm not troubled!”--something of the old bravado rang in his voice,--“except as everybody is troubled when he's trying to straighten out something that won't straighten. I'm knocked out, that's all,--can't you see it?” “Yes, I see it,--and that's not all I see. Is it your work here or in New York? I want to know, and I'm going to know, and I have a right to know, and you are not going to bed until you tell me,--nor will I. I can and will help you, and so will Mr. MacFarlane, and Uncle Peter, and everybody I ask. What's gone wrong?--Tell me!” Garry continued to walk the floor. Then he wheeled suddenly and threw himself into his chair. “Well, Jack,” he answered with an indrawn sigh,--“if you must know, I'm on the wrong side of the market.” “Stocks?” “Not exactly. The bottom's fallen out of the Warehouse Company.” Jack's heart gave a rebound. After all, it was only a question of money and this could be straightened out. He had begun to fear that it might be something worse; what, he dared not conjecture. “And you have lost money?” Jack continued in a less eager tone. “A whole lot of money.” “How much?” “I don't know, but a lot. It went up three points to-day and so I am hanging on by my eyelids.” “Well, that's not the first time men have been in that position,” Jack replied in a hopeful tone. “Is there anything more,--something you are keeping back?” “Yes,--a good deal more. I'm afraid I'll have to let go. If I do I'm ruined.” Jack kept silent for a moment. Various ways of raising money to help his friend passed in review, none of which at the moment seemed feasible or possible. “How much will make your account good?” he asked after a pause. “About ten thousand dollars.” Jack leaned forward in his chair. “Ten thousand dollars!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Why, Garry--how in the name of common-sense did you get in as deep as that?” “Because I was a damned fool!” Again there was silence, during which Garry fumbled for a match, opened his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he said slowly, as he tossed the burnt end of the match from him: “You said something, Jack, about some of your friends helping. Could Mr. MacFarlane?” “No,--he hasn't got it,--not to spare. I was thinking of another kind of help when I spoke. I supposed you had got into debt, or something, and were depending on your commissions to pull you out, and that some new job was hanging fire and perhaps some of us could help as we did on the church.” “No,” rejoined Garry, in a hopeless tone, “nothing will help but a certified check. Perhaps your Mr. Grayson might do something,” he continued in the same voice. “Uncle Peter! Why, Garry, he doesn't earn ten thousand dollars in three years.” Again there was silence.