The lid that covered the upper half of Parkins’s intelligence also received a jolt; it was a coal-hole lid that covered emptiness, but now and then admitted the light.

“Might ’ave known from the clothes ’e wore ’e was no common PUR-son,” he said to himself.  “To tell you the truth—­” this to the second man in the potato-bug waistcoat, when they were dividing between them the bottle of “Extra Dry” three-quarters full, that Parkins had smuggled into the pantry with the empty bottles ("Dead Men,” Breen called them)—­” to tell you the truth, Frederick, when I took ’is ’at and coat hupstairs ’e give me a real start ’e looked that respectable”

As to Jack, not only his mind but his heart were in a whirl.

Half the night he lay awake wondering what he could do to follow Peter’s advice while preserving his own ideals.  He had quite forgotten that part of the older man’s counsel which referred to the dignity of work, even of that work which might be considered as menial.  If the truth must be told, it was his vanity alone which had been touched by the suggestion that in him might lay the possibility of reforming certain conditions around him.  He was willing, even anxious, to begin on Breen & Co., subjecting his uncle, if need be, to a vigorous overhauling.  Nothing he felt could daunt him in his present militant state, upheld, as he felt that he was, by the approval of Peter.  Not a very rational state of mind, the Scribe must confess, and only to be accounted for by the fact that Peter’s talk, instead of clearing Jack’s mind of old doubts, had really clouded it the more—­quite as a bottle of mixture when shaken sends its insoluble particles whirling throughout the whole.

It was not until the following morning, indeed, that the sediment began to settle, and some of the sanity of Peter’s wholesome prescription to produce a clarifying effect.  As long as he, Jack, lived upon his uncle’s bounty—­and that was really what it amounted it—­he must at least try to contribute his own quota of good cheer and courtesy.  This was what Peter had done him the honor to advise, and he must begin at once if he wanted to show his appreciation of the courtesy.

His uncle opened the way: 

“Why, I didn’t know until I saw him go out that he was a friend of Mr. Portman’s,” he said as he sipped his coffee.

“Neither did I. But does it make any difference?” answered Jack, flipping off the top of his egg.

“Well I should think so—­about ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent,” replied the older man emphatically.  “Let’s invite him to dinner, Jack.  Maybe he’ll come to one I’m giving next week and—­”

“I’ll ask him—­that is ... perhaps, though, you might write him a note, uncle, and—­”

“Of course,” interrupted Breen, ignoring the suggestion, “when I wanted you to take him to the club I didn’t know who he was.”

“Of course you did not,” echoed Jack, suppressing a smile.