"What right have you to question me?" demanded the boy furiously. "You are not my guardian. You profess to be a friend of mine, and when I ask you for a slight favour you preach at me. You’re rolling in money, and won’t lift a finger to help a fellow. I don’t want your money, though if what people say is true, the amount I asked you for is a precious small portion of what I might claim from you as a right, and no favour." "Hai! What fo’ you talkee so fashion? What foolo pidgin you talkee this time?" cried Mr. Ting. In his indignation at what was in truth a charge of bad faith the Chinaman lapsed for a moment into the pidgin English of his childhood. Then, recovering his composure, he said with quiet dignity: "You are the son of a gentleman who was my master and my flend, and I cannot say to you what I would say to any other man who insulted me so. I do not gludge the sum that you wish to bollow, but I am solly that you want money for leasons that you will not tell, and which I must think are no cledit to you. But I tell you now, I will lend you enough money to pay all you owe, if you will give me a plomise, the word of a gentleman, that you will make no more debts in the same fashion." Errington looked at him for a moment; then, muttering "Pledge my freedom to a Chinaman!" he flung out of the room in a rage. CHAPTER VII A DISCOVERY IN THE SWAMP The situation of the young fellow was now pitiable in the extreme. He did not know where to turn. There were six other white men in the place, of whom only two were English; and as he canvassed them one by one in his mind, he recognized that it was hopeless to apply to any of them. Remorse, bitter self-reproach for his folly, mingled with the harrowing fear of ruin and exposure. He thought of the pleasant months he had spent in Mr. Burroughs’ house; the kindness all had shown him; the confidence they had put in him; and the thought of losing the good opinion of his friends was agony. He felt that he had kicked away the supports that might have been his. A word to the Mole would, he knew, bring his old friend to his help; but there was that miserable difference between them. A simple promise to Mr. Ting would save him; but pride held him back, and the suspicions that were poisoning his mind. Feeling utterly lost, he went to his room, and buried his aching head on the pillow. Reinhardt came to him next day. "Well, did Ting shell out?" he said. "No," replied Errington. "Give me a week, Reinhardt; I’ll pay you in a week, or----" "Do nozink foolish, my boy. Zat’s all right; I will wait a week; in a week anyzink may happen." On Errington’s part it was a mere staving-off of the evil day--a clutching at a straw; the last desperate hope of the gambler that time was on his side.