The physician’s advice proved to be good. His wasted energies were recuperated, his thin cheeks filled out and showed a healthy color, his appetite improved, and he felt himself again. When the first week in September arrived, he felt that he was well enough to go back to the city, to more congenial scenes. He was heartily tired of the country, and anxious to get away. Only one thing remained to be done, and that was to collect what Philip owed him. “I can’t wait any longer,” he said to himself. “I must compel the boy to pay up. It will liquidate my hotel bill and leave me something over. I can’t let the thing stand any longer.” Soon after he had come to this conclusion, Philip entered his friend’s chamber. “How are you, Phil?” said Congreve, carelessly. “All right!” “By the way, I’ve got some news for you.” “What is it?” “I’m going away.” “Going away? Where?” “Back to the city first. I have an urgent summons from my friends there.” “How soon do you go?” “That depends upon you.” “Upon me? I don’t understand!” said Philip, puzzled. “You ought to. As soon as you have paid me what you owe me. I need it to enable me to settle up at the hotel.” Philip turned pale. It was just what he had worried over many a time—this terrible debt, which he felt utterly unable to liquidate. “How much is it?” he asked, nervously. “How much? Really, I haven’t reckoned it up yet; but I will,” said Congreve, carelessly. He took out his wallet, and drew out a variety of papers, to which Philip’s signature was attached. Then he sat down at a table, took a pencil from his pocket, set the different sums on paper, and added them up deliberately. All this was humbug, for he had added it up before Philip came in, and knew to a dollar how much it amounted to. Philip stood by, feeling miserably uncomfortable, while the reckoning went on. “Really,” said Congreve, looking up at length, in assumed surprise, “I had no idea it amounted to so much!” “How much does it come to?” questioned his wretched dupe. “One hundred and thirty-six dollars,” was the calm response. “A hundred and thirty-six dollars!” gasped Philip. “Yes; surprising, isn’t it? Little sums count up, you know. However, we’ve had some fun out of it, haven’t we?” “I don’t see where the fun comes in,” said Philip, bitterly. “Of course, it’s fun for you to win so much.” “You won some of the time, Phil. Think how many games we have had, and how exciting it was. You play a good deal better game than you did.” “But I have lost a big pile of money.” “Oh, yes. Experience costs money, you know. You’ll get it all back, and more, too, some day.” “How can I, when you are going away?” “I don’t mean out of me. I suppose my game is better than yours. I mean out of somebody else.” Philip was silent. The hope held out did not seem to comfort him much. “When will you pay me that money, Phil?” asked Congreve, abruptly. “When? I’m sure I don’t know. I haven’t any money, you know.”