The young fellow looked into the older man's kindly eyes--
something in their expression implied a wish to draw him the
closer--and said quite simply: "I don't do anything that is of any
use, sir. Garry says that I might as well work in a faro bank."

Peter leaned forward. For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as
he scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his
well-knit, well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his
scalp, cleanly modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth--
especially the mobile lips which seemed quivering from some
suppressed emotion--all telling of a boy delicately nurtured.

"And do you really work in a faro bank?" Peter's knowledge of
human nature had failed him for once.

"Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry's jokes. I'm clerk in a
stock broker's office on Wall Street. Arthur Breen & Company. My
uncle is head of the firm."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" answered Peter in a relieved tone.

"And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?" asked the
young man. "You seem so different from the others."

"Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win," replied
Peter, at which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being
kindled between them.

Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added