time here. I think it'll be a good thing for him. We'll not have enough money to more than pay board."
His uncle had focussed a surprised stare on him. "What sort of work?"
"Why, anything we can find."
Mr. McLean made a mouth and shook his head. "New York!" he said. "Ten thousand people are looking for work in New York. Where is he? I'll take him home with me."
"I'm afraid he won't go, sir," Don replied with a sudden daring. "He's afraid—and I guess he's ashamed. He knew you were coming; they refused payment on his cheque at the bank. He wouldn't come back here with me for fear you'd find him."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
Mr. McLean shifted irritably in his chair. "Wants to run away, does he?"
"He's—he's not—he hasn't been doing anything very wrong," Don pleaded, "except the drinking, and that—he's been led into that."
Mr. McLean did not listen. He took a cigar from an upper pocket of his waistcoat, struck a match and puckered his eyes on the smoke. "Huh!" he grunted over his thoughts. He began to scrutinize Don meditatively, and the boy looked away. It was evident that a decision was coming out of the silence. Don did not speak.
His uncle asked: "Do you know what it is to earn your own living—away from home?"
"No."
