"That's a pity," mused Pierce; "why should you?" "I've got no money of my own except a hundred in the bank. My father won't give me another penny, so I must just put my shoulder to the wheel." "A clerk on a pound a week, or something ridiculous of that sort," said Pierce half derisively. "That won't do for you, Mostyn. But you needn't worry your head about it; I'll get my father or my uncle to find you something more suitable: I've got plenty of influential friends." For a moment Mostyn made no answer, but once more lifted his tumbler to his lips; when he spoke it was with decision. "No," he said. "It's awfully good of you, Pierce, and I haven't the smallest doubt that you could do as you say, but there is nothing that your father or your uncle could give me--nothing well paid, at any rate--that I should be fit for. It would be just the same as taking charity." Pierce was loud in his protest against such principles as these, but he argued in vain. Mostyn had quite made up his mind; he had thought it all over during his solitary dinner, and had decided upon his course of action. He would accept help from no one. He would undertake no work unless it was such as he conscientiously felt he was able to perform. Of course, he had not forgotten Anthony Royce; but if it was money that the latter proposed to offer him, money to be expended upon racing, then, in the light of the present position, Mostyn did not see his way to accept. What, after all, did his foolish words spoken upon the coach matter? They were uttered in a moment of heat, and no one would remember them. He had to think of earning his living now: he had probably been to his first and last race meeting. He had decided to try his luck with journalism; he had an aptitude for writing, and he had a friend who was on the staff of an important London paper. He would look up Arden Travers on the morrow and take the journalist's advice as to the proper manner of setting to work. Pierce expressed his opinion that this was a grievous folly, but at the same time he could not help admiring Mostyn's pluck. There was, at any rate, no harm in trying. So nothing was said on the subject of help to be provided from outside sources, and the two young men parted at about half-past eleven, after making an appointment to meet the following evening, when Mostyn would report how he had got on with his journalist friend, and Pierce would relate the result of his interview with John Clithero. As he was about to leave the club, Mostyn was accosted by Captain Armitage, who was still hovering about the hall. "Are you going? That's a good thing, for I'm just off, too." The captain's voice had grown still more husky, and he dragged his feet across the stone floor with a shambling gait; nevertheless, he was quite master of himself.