Crooker at a desk, in the act of
receiving a roll of money from a well-dressed visitor.
Bert entered unnoticed, and waited till the money was counted and a
receipt signed. Then, as the visitor departed, Mr. Crooker noticed the
lad, offered him a chair, and then turned to place the money in the
safe.
[Illustration: "_He saw Mr. Crooker receiving a roll of money_."]
"So this is your place of business?" said Bert, glancing about the plain
office room. "What do you do here?"
"I buy real estate, sometimes--sell--rent--and so forth."
"Who for?" asked Bert.
"For myself," said the old gentleman, with a smile.
Bert started, perfectly aghast, at this situation. This, then, was the
man whom he had invited to dinner and treated so patronizingly the
preceding Thursday!
"I--I--I thought--you were a poor man!"
"I am a poor man," said Mr. Crooker, locking his safe. "Money doesn't
make a man rich. I've money enough. I own houses in the city. They give
me something to think of, and so keep me alive. I had truer riches once,
but I lost them long ago."
From the way the old man's voice trembled and eyes glistened, Bert
thought he must have meant by these riches, the friends he had lost,
wife and children, perhaps.
"To think of me inviting you to dinner!" he said, abashed and ashamed.
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