With cheeks aflame he darted to Morris’s chair.

“Let me hand it to him, sir,” he cried, all the love for his friend in his eyes, seizing the ring and plunging toward Garry, the shouts increasing as he neared his side and placed the prize in his hand.  Only then did Minott find his breath and his feet.

“Why, Mr. Morris!—­Why, fellows!—­Why, there’s plenty of men in the office who have done more than I have to—­”

Then he sat down, the ring fast in his hand.

When the applause had subside—­the young fellow’s modesty had caused a fresh outburst—­Morris again rose in his chair and once more the room grew still.

“Twelve o’clock, gentlemen,” he said.  “Mr. Downey, you are always our stand-by in starting the old hymn.”

The diners—­host and guests alike—­rose to their feet as one man.  Then to Peter’s and my own intense surprise that most impressive of all chants, the Doxology in long metre, surged out, gaining in volume and strength as its strains were caught up by the different voices.

With the ending of the grand old hymn—­it had been sung with every mark of respect by every man in the room—­John Breen walked back to his chair, leaned toward Peter, and with an apologetic tone in his voice—­he had evidently noticed the unfavorable impression that Garry had made on his neighbor—­said: 

“Don’t misjudge Garry, Mr. Grayson; he’s the kindest hearted fellow in the world when you know him.  He’s a little rough sometimes, as you can see, but he doesn’t mean it.  He thinks his way of talking and acting is what he calls ‘up-to-date.’” Then he added with a sigh:  “I wish I had a ring like that—­one that I had earned.  I tell you, Mr. Grayson, that’s something worth while.”

Peter laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder and looked him straight in the face, the same look in his eyes that a proud father would have given a son who had pleased him.  He had heard with delight the boy’s defence of his friend and he had read the boy’s mind as he sang the words of the hymn, his face grave, his whole attitude one of devotion.  “You’d think he was in his father’s pew at home,” Peter had whispered to me with a smile.  It was the latter outburst though—­the one that came with a sigh—­ that stirred him most.

“And you would really have liked a ring yourself, my lad?”

“Would I like it!  Why, Mr. Grayson, I’d rather have had Mr. Morris give me a thing like that and deserved it, than have all the money you could pile on this table.”

One of those sudden smiles which his friends loved so well irradiated Peter’s face.

“Keep on the way you’re going, my son,” he said, seizing the boy’s hand, a slight tremble in his voice, “and you’ll get a dozen of them.”

“How?” The boy’s eyes were wide in wonderment.

“By being yourself.  Don’t let go of your ideals no matter what Minott or anybody else says.  Let him go his way and do you keep on in yours.  Don’t ... but I can’t talk here.  Come and see me.  I mean it.”