This sickly feeling at his stomach was not to be noticed any more than if he had got knocked out playing baseball. He had this job to do and he was going to do it. And surely he was no worse off than before he got that letter from Professor Hodge. He ought to be glad the professor thought him worthy to go on such an expedition. It maybe wasn’t the only chance in the world, even if good old Hodge had called it “the chance of a lifetime.” Well, if it was, this store was the chance of a lifetime, too. He might never have another opportunity to help Dad, and begin to repay all he had done for him. Good old Dad!

Something misty got into Alan’s eyes as he opened the next envelope, and he cleared his throat and brushed his hand across his forehead. Then suddenly he forgot Egypt and Hodge, and the expedition and the honor, and his loss and everything. For here in this letter was a challenge greater than any buried cities could give. It was even worse than Dad had hinted. The man who held the mortgage had come out in the open with sneers and threats, couched in language that was so sure of winning that it added insult to injury. What! Let that man insult his father? Not if he knew himself! If he couldn’t do anything else, he would thrash him. But he knew, good and well, he was going to do something else. He’d get that money somewhere and put Dad on the top, if he had to sell his own skin to do it. Alan’s lips shut, thin and hard, and his eyes took on their steely look. The desert faded, and honors held less significance. Here was another matter that called for all his nerve and powers. Other fellows could go to Egypt and do whatever was necessary to be done to unearth the secrets of the ages. But he, Alan, was the only one who could put his dad right with the world again.

All day he worked frantically, not taking time to go home for lunch, holding long telephone conversations, and writing letters. Interviewing his father’s lawyer and getting in touch with the president of the bank, making an appointment with a real estate agent in the city for the next day, writing letters to two or three powerful friends of his father’s whom he could not reach over the wires, sending telegrams.

It was wonderful, the thrill that came to him as he realized his own responsibility and the necessity of good judgment. If he only had someone to consult. Someone closer than just bank presidents. Of course, there was Keith Washburn—and Sherrill. Sherrill had amazing good sense for a girl. But of course he could not tell either of them, good friends though they were, about his father’s business. He must weather it alone. If he only could ask Dad a question or two. But his mother’s various messages, reporting the state of the beloved invalid, made it very plain that Dad ought not to be bothered with a thing for many a day yet.

Alan went home late to dinner that night and tried to wear a cheerful face to cover his weariness. Now that his actual work was done, until morning he had time to think of his own disappointment, and it cut deep into his heart and brought out the tired lines on his face more than he dreamed. Maybe he might have gone after all if he only had not been so hasty.