See what it
says on the envelope. It's his own writing. 'For my son David. To be
used in the acquiring of an education if I should fall in this dear,
beloved cause, which now seems lost. God defend us all!' See! 'Arthur
Brodalbin Jenison.' My father's signature. Here is the seal of his
ring. It is my money."
Even Thomas Braddock was swayed, convinced by the eloquence of that
fierce appeal. He stared at the boy, his lips apart, his cigar hanging
limply from one corner of his mouth.
"By thunder!" he murmured, frankly surprised in himself. "I believe
the tale, hang me if I don't!"
But David was waiting only for the verdict of the woman. Mrs. Braddock
had not glanced at the envelope that she now clutched in her tense
fingers; her eyes were only for the eager, chalk-colored face of the
boy. Tears welled up in her warm eyes as he paused for breath.
"I believe you, too--yes, yes, my boy, we all believe you," she cried,
putting out her hand to him. He snatched it up and kissed it.
At that instant the ringmaster, white with rage, dashed in from the
big tent.
"Say, what's the matter with you loafers?"
The crowd of tumblers jumped out of the trance as if shot.
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