"No! Don't!" cried Overholt, much distressed by the mere suggestion. "He
could only tell me to rest, and take exercise and sleep at night and not
worry!" He laughed rather wildly. "He would tell me not to worry! They
always say that! A doctor would tell a man 'not to worry' if he was to
be hanged the next morning!"

"Well," said Newton philosophically, "I suppose a man who's going to be
hung needn't worry much, anyway. He's got the front seat at the show and
nothing particular to do!"

This was sound, so far as it went, but insufficient as consolation.
Overholt either did not hear, or paid no heed to the boy. He left the
room a moment later without shutting the door, and threw himself down on
the old black horsehair sofa in the parlour. Presently the lad rose
again and covered up the City of Hope with the big brown paper case he
had made to fit down over the board and keep the dust off.

"This isn't your day," he observed as he did so, and the remark was
certainly addressed to the model of the town.

He went into the other room and stood beside his father, looking down at
his drawn face and damp forehead.

"Say, father, really, isn't there anything I can do to help?"

Overholt answered with an effort. "No, my boy, there's nothing, thank
you. You cannot find money to pay my debts, can you?"

"Have you got no money at all?" asked Newton, very gravely.