table with a bright lamp burning, and wondering why his boy did not come
home. The dream was over then; his head ached a good deal and he did not
feel hungry, but that was all; burning anxiety had cooled to leaden
care. He knew quite well that it was all over with the Motor, that his
friends at the College would find him some sort of employment, and that
in due time he would succeed in working off his debt to the bank,
dollar by dollar. He had got his soul back out of the claws of despair
that had nearly flown away with it. There was no hope, but he could live
without it because he must not only live himself, but keep his boy
alive. Somehow, he would get along on credit for a week or two, till he
could get work. At all events there were his tools to sell, and the
Motor must go for old brass, bronze, iron, and steel. He would see about
selling the stuff the next day, and with what it would bring he could at
least pay cash for necessaries, and the bank must wait. There was no
hope in that, but there was the plain sense of an honest man. He was not
a coward; he had only been brutally stunned, and now that he had
recovered from the blow he would do his duty. But an innocent man who
walks steadily to endure an undeserved death is not a man that hopes for
anything, and it was like death to Overholt to give up his invention.

The door opened and Newton came in quietly. His face was flushed with
the cold and his eyes were bright. What was the weight of leaden care to
the glorious main-spring of healthy thirteen? Overholt was proud of his
boy, nevertheless, for facing the dreary prospect of no Christmas so
bravely. Then he had a surprise.

"I've got a little money, father. It's not much, I know, but it's
something to go on with for a day or two. There it is."

Newton produced three well-worn dollar bills and some small change,