"Say, you're a wise guy, ain't you?" he derided when I answered the phone. I admitted it. "I got a letter from that lawyer in England," he told me. "This Evans is the stuff, just like I said. His wife run away with another man, and he went to the devil fifteen years ago. They've been looking for him ever since his son grew up." "Son?" I asked. "Son. Sure! Raising wheat out in Canada somewhere. They give me his address. He's made a pile. I'm going to write to him." "What does Bum say?" "Him? I ain't told him. I won't till I'm sure the kid's coming after him." He said again that I was a wise guy; and I apologized for my wisdom and asked for a share in what was to come. He promised to keep me posted. Ten days later he telephoned me while I was at supper to ask if I could come to his room. I said: "What's up?" "The old guy's boy is coming after him," Sheener said. "He's got the shakes waiting. I want you to come and help me take care of him." "When's the boy coming?" "Gets in at midnight to-night," said Sheener. I promised to make haste; and half an hour later I joined them in Sheener's room. Sheener let me in. Evans himself sat in something like a stupor, on a chair by the bed. He was dressed in a cheap suit of ready-made clothes, to which he lent a certain dignity. His cheeks were shaven clean, his mustache was trimmed, his thin hair was plastered down on his bony skull. The man stared straight before him, trembling and quivering. He did not look toward me when I came in; and Sheener and I sat down by the table and talked together in undertones. "The boy's really coming?" I asked. Sheener said proudly: "I'm telling you." "You heard from him?" "Got a wire the day he got my letter." "You've told Bum?" "I told him right away. I had to do it. The old boy was sober by then, and crazy for a shot of booze. That was Monday. He wanted to go out and get pied; but when I told him about his boy, he begun to cry. And he ain't touched a drop since then." "You haven't let him?" "Sure I'd let him. But he wouldn't. I always told you the class was there. He says to me: 'I can't let my boy see me in this state, you know. Have to straighten up a bit. I'll need new clothes.'" "I noticed his new suit." "Sure," Sheener agreed. "I bought it for him." "Out of his savings?" "He ain't been saving much lately." "Sheener," I asked, "how much does he owe you? For money loaned and spent for him." Sheener said hotly: "He don't owe me a cent." "I know. But how much have you spent on him?" "If I hadn't have give it to him, I'd have blowed it somehow. He needed it." I guessed at a hundred dollars, at two hundred. Sheener would not tell me. "I'm telling you, he's my pal," he said. "I'm not looking for anything out of this." "If this millionaire son of his has any decency, he'll make it up to you."