Jim
21
"Not a sou. I'm earning my own living."
"Good. But how?"
"They don't take a boy just out of college for the president of a bank or the director of a railway. I'm just a clerk in Marshall Field's."
Jarrod looked him over, critically. The cheap new summer suit—perhaps it had cost fifteen dollars could not disguise his manly bearing. On another man it might have proclaimed its cheapness; on Jim no one noticed its texture.
"How much do you earn?" asked the lawyer, quietly.
"Twelve dollars a week. But it's an interesting experience, Mr. Jarrod. You've no idea how well a fellow can live on twelve dollars a week—unless you've tried it."
Jarrod smiled.
"Where are you bound for?" he asked.
"A little place called Tamawaca,
