secret. "No one's to know but you and me. No one, now, understand?"
Don understood.
Mr. McLean reflected slowly. "Now look here," he said, "I could take him home and put him to work, but I don't want to make a whipped cur of him. And I don't want to treat him the way the old people treated me. I want him to find his feet—if he can. And I want you to help him."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow, eh? What does your father say?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard from him yet."
"Running away, too, are you?" He stretched out his thick leg with a chuckle and went down in his pocket for a roll of bills. He took off several for himself and held out the remainder to Don, with his cigar fuming in his mouth and his eyes closed against the bite of smoke that drifted into them. "Here."
"I don't need that, sir," Don said. "I have enough. Aunt Jane has been"
"Here!" he choked, one hand in his pocket, the other filled with bills.
Don took them from him to relieve him. He removed his cigar from below his nose, caught his breath, and said: "Twenty dollars won't see him far." He reached for his hat. "They'll teach you something about money before you're there long."
Don smiled crookedly over his embarrassment of riches.
