They rode up to Fifty-Ninth street, and transferring to a cross-town car, got off at the Plaza. Evan’s subconsciousness registered the fact that the little fellow in grey was still travelling their way, but he took no particular notice of him. Deaves led the way to one of the magnificent mansions that embellish the neighbourhood. He handed his bundle to Evan.

“You carry it,” he said. “Maud always makes a fuss when I bring bundles home.”

“Who is Maud?” asked Evan.

“My son’s wife; a great society woman.”

“You want me to come in with you then?” said Evan.

“Yes, you’re a good boy. I want to give you something.”

Evan was surprised. “A dime, or even a quarter!” he thought, smiling to himself. Nevertheless he went willingly enough, filled with a great curiosity.

The house was a showy affair of grey sandstone built in the style of a French chateau. But Evan’s trained eye perceived many lapses of taste; it was not even well-built; the window-casings were of wood when they should have been of stone; the side of the house, plainly visible from the street, was of common yellow brick. It looked like a jerry-built palace for a parvenu. Evan wondered how the old money-lender had come to be stuck with it.

“My son’s house,” said Deaves with a queer mixture of pride and scorn. “I live with them. Sinful waste!”

He avoided the front door with its grand grill of polished steel. The street widening had shorn off the original areaway of the house, and the service entrance was now a mere slit in the sidewalk with a steep stair swallowed up in blackness below. Down this stair old Simeon Deaves made his way. Evan followed, grinning to himself. It was certainly an odd way for a man to enter his own home.

“We won’t meet Maud this way,” Deaves said over his shoulder.

The remark called up a picture of Maud before Evan’s mind’s eye.

In the basement of the great house they met many servants passing to and fro, before whom the old man cringed a little. These superior menials turned an indifferent shoulder to him, but stared hard at Evan. Evan flushed. Insolence in servants galled his pride. “If I paid their wages I’d teach them better manners!” he thought.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, which was full of passages like all ill-planned dwellings, the old man unlocked a door and led Even into a vaultlike chamber without a window. Carefully closing the door behind them he turned on a light.

“This is where I keep all my things,” he said innocently. “Maud never comes down here.”

Evan looked around. A strange collection of objects met his view; old clothes, old newspapers, old hardware, in extraordinary disorder. It was like the junk room in an old farmhouse. The walls were covered with shelves heaped with objects; old clocks, broken china ornaments, empty cans, pieces of rope, bundles of rags. On the floor besides, were boxes and trunks, some with covers, some without; the latter overflowing with rubbish. Evan wondered whimsically if the closed boxes were filled with shining gold eagles. It would be quite in keeping, he thought. But on second thoughts, no. Your modern miser is too sensible of the advantages of safe deposit vaults.

Deaves found a place for his bundle of old clothes, and seeing Evan looking around, he said with his noiseless laugh, which was no more than a facial contortion:

“You never can tell when a thing will be wanted.”

Turning his back on Evan he rummaged for a long time among his shelves. Evan was somewhat at a loss, for his host appeared to have forgotten him. He was considering quietly leaving the place when the old man finally turned around. He had a small object in his hand which he made as if to offer Evan, but drew it back suddenly and examined it lovingly. It was a pen-knife out of his collection.

“Almost new,” said Deaves. “The little blade is missing, but the big blade is perfectly good if you sharpen it. Here,” he said, suddenly thrusting it at Evan as if in fear of repenting of his generosity. “For you.”

Evan resisted the impulse to laugh. After all the value of a gift is its value to the giver. He pocketed it with thanks. It would make an interesting souvenir. To produce it would cap the climax of the funny story he meant to make out of this adventure. He turned to go.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Deaves. “Sit down and let’s talk.”

He evidently had something on his mind. Evan, curious to learn what it could be, sat down on a trunk.

“You’re a good boy, and a strong boy,” said the old man. “I’d like to do something for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Evan grinning.

“Why don’t you come every day and go out with me. I like to walk about. I can’t stay cooped up here. I like the streets. But people recognise me.”

“And make rude remarks,” said Evan to himself.

“But with you I could go anywhere.”

“Ah, a body-guard,” thought Evan. The idea was not without its attractions. It would be an amusing job. He said:

“If you want to hire me I’m willing. I need the money.”

“Hire you!” said the old man in a panic. “I never said anything about hiring you. I just mean a friendly arrangement. You have plenty of time on your hands. I’ll give you good advice. Show you how to become a successful man.”

“Thanks,” said Evan dryly. “But the labels I paint bring in ready money.”

“Many a young man would be glad of the chance to go around with Simeon Deaves,” he went on cunningly. “It would be a liberal education for you.”

Evan got up. It was the best argument he knew.

“You could have your meals here,” Deaves said quickly. “They eat well. There’s enough wasted in this house to feed an orphanage.”

“Sorry,” said Evan. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Well, you could have a room on the top floor. You look pretty good; Maud wouldn’t mind you. Your living wouldn’t cost you a cent.”

Evan thought of the supercilious servants. Not for a bank president’s salary would he have lived in that house. He said: “I’m open for an offer as I told you, but only during specified hours. I’d eat and sleep at home.”

“You’re a fool!” said the old man testily. “Free board and lodging! I haven’t any money.”

“All right,” said Evan moving towards the door. “No harm done.”

“Wait a minute. Maybe my son would lend me the money to pay you a small salary. He says I oughtn’t to go out alone.”

“A small salary doesn’t interest me,” said Evan boldly. “Fifty dollars a week is my figure.”

Simeon Deaves gasped. “You’re crazy. It’s a fortune. At your age I wasn’t making a third of that!”

“Very likely. But times have changed.”

The old man now opened the door for Evan. As he did so there was a scuttle in the passage and a figure whisked out of sight. “Snoopers!” thought Evan.

“Will you show me the way up-stairs?” he said. “I don’t care to use the servants’ entrance.”

“Sure, that’s right,” said Deaves soothingly. “I hope we won’t meet Maud. Always picking on me.”

As they headed for the stairs he said cajolingly: “Fifteen dollars a week; that’s plenty to live on. Youngsters ought to live simply. It’s good for their health.”

“But how about putting something by?” said Evan slyly.

“Well, I think my son might go as high as seventeen-fifty if I asked him. Because you’re a good boy and a strong boy.”

“Thanks. Nothing doing.”

As Evan resolutely mounted the stairs, the old man hobbling after said: “Well, I’ll add two and a half to that myself. But that’s my last word! Not another cent!”

“Nothing doing,” said Evan again.

At the head of the stairs Deaves said nervously: “Better let me take a look to see if Maud’s around.” He peeped out. “All right, the coast is clear.”

They were now in a square entrance hall of goodly size, very showily finished like a hotel with veneered panels, which already showed signs of wear. Imitation antique chairs stood about, and in front of the fireplace, which was certainly never intended to contain a fire, was spread a somewhat moth-eaten polar bear skin. Still it was grand after a fashion, and the old man in his hand-me-downs looked oddly out of place.

“Better think it over!” he said. “Twenty dollars a week! It’s a splendid salary!”

“Nothing doing,” said Evan, grinning. In a way he liked the old scoundrel.

Deaves affected to lose his temper. “Oh, you’re too big for your shoes!” he cried. “Your demands are preposterous!”

Evan continued calmly to make his way towards the front door.

Just before they reached it the old man made one last appeal. “Twenty dollars!” he said plaintively.

A door at the back of the hall opened and an old-young man came out; that is to say he was young in years, but he seemed to bear the weight of an empire on his shoulders, and looked very, very sorry for himself. He was dressed as if he had to be a pall-bearer that day, but that was his ordinary attire. He looked sharply from the old man to Evan.

“Who is this, Papa?” he demanded with the air of a school-master catching a boy red-handed.

The old man cringed. “This this is a young man.”

“So I see.”

“Well, I I didn’t exactly ask him his name.”

“Evan Weir,” spoke up the young man for himself.

“He came home with me,” said Deaves. “There was a little trouble.”

The younger Deaves was horrified. “Another disgraceful street scene!” he cried. Addressing Evan he said: “Please tell me exactly what happened.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “But not here. Come up to my library.”

He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan with an air that seemed to say: “Now tell me the worst!” Between the two, Evan’s sympathies were with the father.

He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.

“We shall hear more of this!” he said tragically.

The old man pished and pshawed. “I offered him a steady job,” he said, “to go round with me. But his notions are too grand.”

“Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement,” his son said pompously. “How much do you want?” he asked of Evan.

“Fifty dollars a week.”

“That’s ridiculous!” young Deaves said loftily. “I’ll give you twenty-five.”

The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the son was not so naïve as the father. Evan kept up his end with firmness and good-humour. After all there was some fun in contending with such passionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more anxious to get hold of him than the father. They finally compromised on forty dollars a week, provided Evan’s references were satisfactory. Simeon Deaves was scandalised.

“It’s too much! too much!” he repeated. “It will turn his head completely!”