As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little chaps, the feet in their worn moccasins, the coarse flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look and understood. He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he lifted him down and held him in his arms. "One moment, Mr. Petrie. I see your drift," he savagely answered. "But you sha’n’t do it, sir. You sha’n’t. I won’t listen." But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim’s vulnerable point, and that he was capable of making the sacrifice for the boy. "I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as the advocate of your child." He told himself he was justified in asking what he did. "Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined man—stone broke, as we say out here. I had to begin my life all over again. But I had Hal, his love and his life to live in day by day, and now you want that, too. I can’t do it. I know it’s selfish, but life owes me something, and that’s all I ask. I can’t let him go. I can’t—I can’t!" But Malcolm Petrie persisted. "You’re responsible for that child’s future. You don’t want him to grow up to blame you—to look back to his youth and his father with bitterness, perhaps hate." Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the tiny face, cried, "You’ll never do that, will you, Hal, my boy?" "What, daddy?" "Think badly of your father?" "No, daddy, no," and the child’s arms were thrown about Jim’s shaking body. Petrie touched Jim’s arm quietly. "You’re robbing your child of his manifest destiny." "What do you want?" "Send the little man home with me." With eyes almost blinded with emotion, Jim looked into Petrie’s face. "Have you any children, Petrie?" The solicitor shook his head, and in Jim’s words, "I knew it—I knew it," he understood what he meant. Like a father who sympathizes, yet must be firm in his efforts to convince his son of his wisdom, Petrie spoke. "I am thinking of Hal’s future, as the friend and adviser of your family. I am thinking coldly, perhaps, but, believe me, kindly." Jim could not doubt his sincerity. He buried his head against the child. "You don’t know what a lonely life I led until Hal was born, and how lonely I’ll be when he is gone." Gone! Could he agree to this separation? The word frightened him. "Gone! Oh, my God, no!" He could not. Then Petrie appealed to Jim’s conscience. "You know the trite old saying, ’England expects that every man this day shall do his duty.’" So simply, so seriously did Petrie quote the well-worn phrase, that its shaft went home.