You remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who was
so good to me when I entered college?"
The father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoying
incidents
of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by him and
helped to
avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship had grown
between
the two boys, so different in their fortunes.
"Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a promising young man.
Has he succeeded?"
"Not exactly--that is not yet. His business has been going
rather badly.
He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has broken
down,--
something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chance
is
a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help
him."
"How much would it cost?"
"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan."
"Does the doctor say he will get well?"
"A fighting chance--the doctor says."
The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was
altered,
but it seemed to have a different substance, as if it were
carved out of some firm, imperishable stuff.
"A fighting chance," he said, "may do for a speculation, but it
is
not a good investment. You owe something to young Rollins.
Your grateful feeling does you credit.
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