Conroy checked his fury, to cry, contemptuously: "Where'll you get it?"
"Oh, I'll get it. . . . All he wanted was to give you your chance. You wouldn't have gone back to Coulton. You were coming to New York, yourself. Now that he let you come, this is the way you behave!"
"Is he sending you money for me?"
"I'll not tell you."
"Why didn't you tell me before? Why did you pretend you were lending it to me?"
"I didn't. I told you it was as much yours as mine."
"He is sending it."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. When everyone's trying to help you to—to You ought to be ashamed."
Conroy flung out: "I don't see that you're doing such a lot. You haven't earned a cent yourself."
"No, but I've tried to."
"Well, haven't I? Haven't I?"
"You're not trying to—lately."
"Ah!" Conroy threw out his hands with a snarl of despair. "What's the use? I'm down and everyone kicks me! They won't give me anything to do. Why should they? I don't know how to do anything. I've made a mess of my life." He choked up, boyishly.
"You're not any worse off than I am," Don said, "and I haven't given up. Not by a good deal! I'll stick to it if it comes to selling lead pencils on the street corner. . . . Besides, you can go home at Christmas, to your father's office, if you wish to. You have
