The assistant bookkeeper had returned from his two weeks’ vacation—most of which had been spent in the vicinity of the main offices of the C., B. and L.—feeling a little sore. He had not been treated with the respect due to a person entrusted with important interests. Certain reports which represented hours of faithful work had been looked upon as of little worth, and others—facts most difficult, even dangerous, to obtain—had been demanded crassly. Moreover, his statement that the president of the “R. and Q.” was practically a broken-down man had been openly flouted.
“You don’t know him,” the manager of the C., B. and L. had declared, sitting back in his big chair. “He’s been a broken-down man for years. I’d like to be broken-down, myself, the way he is, a little while!” Eds chair creaked comfortably. “He ’s a steel trap! That ’s what he is!” he said sharply. “Look out for your fingers.”
The assistant bookkeeper had smiled ruefully, rubbing the fingers together. “Of course, I’ve never seen him before,” he said respectfully, “but if I know a man that ’s pretty near frazzled out—he ’s the man. There’s nothing to him but a blaze.”
“You don’t know him,” said the manager brusquely. He took a sealed envelope from the desk and held it out.... “When you report again, we want the names of all parties shipping, with rates—and rebates,” he added significantly. “This won’t do, you know.” He tapped the report that had cost the assistant bookkeeper many anxious hours—lightly with his finger.
The bookkeeper, whose hand almost of itself had reached out for the envelope, hesitated a little. “I don’t know that I shall stay with the ’R. and Q.,’” he said softly.
“Don’t you!” The manager’s keen eyes read his little soul through—and smiled. “You have n’t any particular position in mind where you can draw a better salary for keeping one set of books, have you!”
“I don’t know that I have—just now.” The tone was defiant—but wobbly.
“All right, stay where you are. You won’t do better. Take my advice. You ’re getting along all right.”
The assistant bookkeeper glanced again at the envelope—and took it. “You better see Tetlow, yourself,” he said as he went out.
The manager nodded. “You ’re all right,” he repeated.
“Harrington will bear watching,” he said to the division superintendent. “I don’t trust him.”
“Don’t trust anybody,” said the superintendent. “You won’t get fooled.”
“I wish I knew the truth about Sim Tetlow,” went on the other. “It would be just like him to pretend he was a wreck, and then spring on us and paw us all over while we ’re getting ready to squeeze him.... You can’t trust Harrington. He works for his pay.” He touched the report a little scornfully. “But who knows that Tetlow is n’t paying him—to say that he ’s a wreck—That makes three salaries—?”
“Go and see for yourself,” said the other curtly.
The manager’s face grew thoughtful. The shrewd light spread to his fat cheeks. “It ’s a good idea. I ’ll do it—right off.”
JOHNS’s second visit to Dr. Blake was much briefer than the first.
The doctor had refused to advise further without direct consultation. “I must see the man,” he said decisively.
And when John had demurred, he had asked the patient’s name.
“Simeon Tetlow!” he said thoughtfully, but smiling a little. “Why did n’t you tell me at first it was Sim Tetlow?”
“Do you know him?” asked John.
“I knew him years ago, in college. He was n’t what he is now—more human blood. I knew him pretty well up to the time he was married.”
John looked up. “I did n’t know he was married!”
“A beautiful woman,” said the doctor, “too good for him—She died the next year—and the baby—That was twenty years ago and more........ So it’s Sim! I might have guessed. There is n’t a man in a thousand miles that fits the case as he does—Driving himself to death!”
The young man waited directions.
“Send him to me,” said the doctor. “He ’ll come—Yes. He won’t mind seeingme!” He laughed a little.
John started for home with lighter heart. Simeon would obey the great doctor—and all would be well. He even slept a little on the way. But when the train reached Bay-port, it was not yet three o’clock. He hesitated as he left the station. He had not expected to reach home before morning and his mother was not expecting him. She would be sure to waken—perhaps lie awake the rest of the night. He turned his steps toward the “R. and Q.” office building. There was a cushioned settle in the little upper office; he had had it brought in lately—in the hope that Simeon would use it. He would spend the rest of the night there, and be on hand in the morning.
He turned the key noiselessly in the lock and went in. The great building lay silent and shadowy as he made his way from room to room, up flight after flight of long stairs, guided only by the sense of touch and familiarity. The darkness about him seemed filled with whispers—plots, counterplots. He felt them vaguely, as he climbed—yet with a certain serenity of heart. Simeon would see Dr. Blake. All would be right. Let the master of the road once be master of himself and the shadows would melt. He crossed the upper loft and went into the little room. The air was stifling, after the freshness outside, and he threw open the windows, leaning out to breathe deep. He heard the roar of the engine coming into the yard on the still air and saw the lights gleam through the smoke.
It was a wonderful night. The deep September sky twinkled with stars and far below him, the city, dark and mysterious and sad, lifted its glimmering lamps. They broke the darkness, luminous, faint—like some inner meaning. The youth looking down had a sudden, quickened sense of power, vast issues, mighty interests. The city slept at his feet, beautiful, relaxed. Fold upon fold of darkness wrapped it round and his heart went out to it—helpless there in the darkness—and in its midst, Simeon—asleep or awake—waiting the new day. A fresh loyalty to the man swelled within him. The sleeping city touched him in a way he could not name—its mighty power cradled in the night in sleep.
He threw himself on the couch and slept.
It was the lightest click... but he sat up, his eyes fixed on darkness. The lock clicked again and the door swung open. He felt it move softly through the black, and close again. A footstep crossed the floor. John waited. He was leaning forward, staring before him, his slow mind wrestling with the sounds that came and went, lightly. He was unarmed. He had only his hands; he clinched them a little and felt the muscles swell behind them. He was not altogether defenceless!
The sounds puzzled him. They were methodical, deliberate—not as if finding out the way, but as if accustomed to the place and to darkness. ... Simeon Tetlow, himself?—The thought flashed at him and drew back. ... A light stole through the gloom—the focused glow of the electric pocket candle on a desk across the room—Simeon’s desk.
John leaned forward, holding his breath.
... Behind the candle, a vague form—a massive head and shoulders, bending above the lock of the desk.... The key was fitted in and the top lifted. Then, for the first time, the man seemed to hesitate, his head turning itself a little in the shadow and waiting, as if disturbed. The glow of the candle suddenly went out and the steps moved stealthily. John straightened himself—the clinched hand ready.... The steps receded slowly and a hand fumbled at the open window, lowering it without sound and drawing down the thick shade. The man moved to the other window and closed it. The youth on the lounge caught the muttered sound of his own name, as if in imprecation.... Then the steps again. ... And suddenly the soft candle—shining in the dark.
The man reached into the half-gloom of the desk for a ledger. He seemed to know without hesitation which he wanted. He opened it and fell to work, apparently in the middle of a page, the sinister eye of the candle traveling up and down the columns, the scratching pen transcribing figures to a kind of muttered accompaniment.
John recognized the book, in the shadowy light.... He ought not to have left it there. He had more than half guessed this thing before.... So this was the reason why Hemenway & Hill countermanded their order for fifty cars, a week ago, and Gardner & Hutchinson changed their mind about shipping their wheat the thirtieth... and this thing had been going on for weeks?—months?... No, it was only within six weeks that the book had been tampered with.... His mind ran back over the time, fitting each coincidence in place.... So this was it! It was state prison for the man.... But suppose he were not arrested?... Suppose he were let to go free—in fear of his life.... John, watching, gauged the man, sitting there in the night, his busy pen writing his own doom.... He should go on sending the reports. The enemy should have their bulletin from day to day, but it should be compiled by John Bennett. The scribe should have only the work of copying.... It might save time if the arrangement were completed now. He moved his hand a trifle toward the wall behind him, groping a little. The next minute the room was a blaze of light and the man at the desk was on his feet, stifling a quick cry—blinking at the looping bulbs of light. He made a swift step toward the door; but some one, broad-shouldered and smiling, stood against it.
“Sit down, Harrington,” said John quietly.
The man’s hands swung out blindly. Then they fell to his sides. He was panting a little, as if he had come a long distance. But his eyes were fixed on John’s face with a little sneer. “Think you ’re clever, don’t you!” he said doggedly.
“I wish I were,” said John, “though it does n’t seem to have done you much good,” he added after a moment.
The man’s fingers were fumbling at the desk, striving to gather up and destroy the papers jotted with figures.
“Let those alone!” said John.
The fingers ceased their work, but they still moved restlessly, playing on the air. The sudden fright had done its work.... Quietly, bit by bit, John laid the plan before him.
“But I tell you I don’tdaredo it,” said the man. His voice was a kind of shrill moan.
“Do you darenotto?” asked the young man.
There was silence in the room.
“All right.” It was crafty, with a sullen note just below the surface. “You give me the figures and I ’ll copy ’em and send ’em.”
“Iwill send them,” said John slowly, “and so long as you play fair, no one else knows it. But if you betray us by one breath—I give the matter over to President Tetlow—”
The man had started. “No,—You won’t do that—No!” He was almost cowering before him.
John smiled a little, looking down at him. So it was still a name to conjure with! His mind wandered inconsequently to the bag of eggs on the high shelf and the egg-beater hanging on its nail behind the cupboard door. The man little knew that they were President Tetlow. He was still a terror to evil doers. “One breath—and I tell him!” said John sternly.
The man shrank a little. “I ’ll do it,” he said. He, himself, could not have accounted for the fear that held him. He knew that the president of the “R. and Q.” road was a broken man; he had sworn it to the manager of the C. B. and L.; but none the less he was afraid. A phrase that he had heard long since, stirred in his mind—“You don’t cross Sim Tetlow and live!” He wanted to live—the assistant bookkeeper—he desired earnestly to live—and to prosper. He had done his best for years—Yet it seemed always to evade him.
“I ’ll do it all right for you—I ’ll act on the square,” he said magnanimously.
“Oh, no—You ’ll do what you have to,” said John.
A sudden hatred of this young man flared in the assistant bookkeeper’s heart. Then he remembered the look in Nixon’s face—manager of the C. B. and L.—the day he had seen him last. It struck him that the two looks were curiously alike. “I hate Nixon!” he said viciously, “I ’ll be glad to get one on him.”
“Does n’t he pay you well?” asked John.
The man writhed a little. “That’s my affair,” he said.
“All right. Keep it your affair,” said John. “He ’ll pay you—same as ever—and you ’re to take it.”
The man stared at him. His jaw had dropped a little. He moved toward the door. “You ’re a deep un. I don’t want anything to do with you.... I can’t face Nixon—every month, I tell you. He’d kill me!”
“You face him—or Simeon Tetlow,” John said. “You take your choice.” He moved back from the door and the man stepped toward it. He opened it quickly and went out. The sound of his footsteps, hurrying as if pursued, died away in the outer loft.
The young man stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at the disordered desk. Then he gathered up the papers and returned the ledger to its place. He locked the desk and turned off the blaze of light before he opened the windows. He stood looking down at the city in the mysterious night. Then he threw himself on the couch and slept till the morning.
SIMEON was tearing open his morning’s mail, fussing and growling. “There ’s another—” He tossed it to John.
The young man read it without comment. It was from the farmers of Elk Horn County—the second within a month—accusing the road of keeping back cars to force up rates.
“They’ve had their share,” grumbled Simeon from his mail.
“More, too,” said John. He scowled his brow a little. “No. 8 brought in thirty-five empties yesterday,” he said slowly.
Simeon wheeled a little, “Where to?”
“Somers—most of them.”
“And Somers shall have ’em,” said Simeon. He wheeled back again. “Let the Elk Horners run a road of their own. They know so much. Let their press agent get at it—Make cars out o’ wind and haul ’em with talk.” He plunged again into the mail, tearing and gritting his way through. Suddenly there was silence in the room—A long hush—
The young man looked around.
The president of the road was huddled a little forward, his eyes on a letter that his shaking hands tried in vain to steady.
John stepped quickly to his side. But the man did not look up. His eyes seemed glued to the few lines that covered the page. When the shaking hand dropped to the desk, he sat staring at nothing where the lines had been.
John went out noiselessly and mixed an egg and placed it beside him. He knew from the look in Simeon’s face that he had not slept, and he guessed that he had had no breakfast.
“You ’d better take this, sir,” he said quietly.
Simeon’s hand groped a little toward it and drew back. “I tell you I can’t see him,” he said sharply.
“Who is it, sir?”
“Nixon—” He touched the paper beside him. “He wants to talk over rates. I tell you I can’t see him—I can’t!” It was almost a cry.
The young man took up the letter. “Perhaps you won’t need to, sir.” His slow eyes were on the words. “It’s only the rates,” he said thoughtfully.
“Do you believe it?” The president of the road leaned toward him a little, hissing the words at him. “He says what he wants is an appointment for seeingme!” He lifted the haggard face, the bitter laugh drawing back the thin lips from his teeth. “What do you think our stock ’d be worth the next day? I tell you it ’s a trap!” He lifted his shaking hand. He looked at the light through it. “He wants to seeme!” he repeated bitterly. “Let him come,” he said shrilly; “let him—” The hand dropped to the desk. “I ’ve lost my nerve, John!” he whispered helplessly. “I’ve lost my nerve!”
“Better take your egg, sir,” said John.
Simeon reached out blindly and gulped it down. His hand quivered as he wiped the little yellow line from his lips.
John’s eyes were on his face—“Had you thought of seeing Dr. Blake?” he asked.
The hand paused in mid air. “Yes—I’d—thought—of that.”
The young man picked up the letter. “Wednesday ’s Nixon’s day, is n’t it? Why not see Dr. Blake Wednesday?”
The man leaned forward. “What about Nixon?”
“I ’ll see Nixon, sir,” said John.
Simeon stared at him a minute—“What would you say to him!”
“I don’t know—yet.”
Simeon stared again. Then he chuckled a little. “I believe you could,” he said grimly. “He ’d go away thinking I was a prizefighter!”
John’s hand rested lightly on the shaking one, holding it firm, and his eyes were on the quivering, driven face. “He ’d go away thinking the truth, sir—that you are a big man.”
Simeon smiled a little shame-facedly, drawing away the hand. “I ’m a big fool,” he said shortly. “There is n’t a bigger anywhere—except you!”
The young man’s face expressed content. “You will see Dr. Blake?”
“I ’ll see Blake—yes.” The shadow had returned again to his face, blotting out hope. He had drawn a sheet of paper toward him.
“I ’ll see Blake if you want me to. But Blake can’t help—”
“Blake can, if anybody can,” said John stoutly.
“If anybody can—yes.” It was a half whisper. He was writing wearily, like an old man. Presently the pen stopped and he sat staring before him.... A little look of hope stole into the set face. He took up his cheque-book and filled in a cheque in his fine, scrawling hand.
He looked around. The young man was hard at work. He waited a minute, impatient. Then he spoke, hesitating a little between the words, “Oh—John—?”
“Yes, sir.” He came across.
“I thought you might like to make a present—to your friend Tomlinson?” He was holding out the slip of paper indifferently.
The youth looked down. It was a cheque for a thousand dollars. His face lighted with a quick smile. “It looks as ifyouwere the friend,” he said.
“Tomlinson ’s no friend of mine,” said Simeon gruffly. “But you can send it.”
“It shall go today, sir.” He was moving away.
Simeon’s hand reached out to him. “It ’s to come from you, you understand?”
The young man paused. He shook his head slowly. “He knows we have n’t a cent in the world.”
“Make it from the directors then—for services rendered.” He laughed—a little bitterly.
“Yes, sir—from the directors—for services rendered.” John wrote the letter and sent it. But he knew that the cheque that went with it was not recorded on the books of the “R. and Q.” Road.
The manager of the C. B. and L. was being shown into the president’s office—not the little room on the upper floor, but the one with the bronze token on the door. The typewriters had been driven out for the day on some pretext of cleaning.
As the manager entered the office, he saw a young man seated at the desk, his round head and broad back absorbed in work. His impatient eye swept the room—no one else!
“I—ah—I wish to see President Tetlow,” he said sharply.
The young man at the desk rose and turned slowly, facing him. The manager was conscious of a pair of clear, straight eyes looking into his.
“I asked down below for Tetlow,” he said a little less brusquely.
“Is it Mr. Nixon?” said John.
“Manager of the C. B. and L.,” said the man.
The slow smile on John’s face made him welcome. “President Tetlow asked me to see you, sir—”
“Where is he?” There was a flash of suspicion in the tone.
“He was called out of town. An old friend wrote, asking to see him today.”
“Did n’t know Sim Tetlow had any friends—any old ones,” said the manager.
“Will you sit down, sir?” said John. He drew forward one of the capacious chairs and the man sank into it, giving a little nip to each trouser leg, just above the knee, before he settled back comfortably, a hand resting on either arm of the big chair. He glanced about the room. “Comfortable quarters,” he said.
The young man was standing opposite him.
“President Tetlow asked me to give you any details you might wish, sir, and to represent him as far as I can.”
The man in the big chair surveyed him for a moment. “And who mightyoube?” he asked pleasantly. There was more than a bint of irony in the light words.
“I am John Bennett,” said the young man.
“Um-m. I am glad to know. And do you hold—any particular position?”
The young man was looking at him steadily. A slow smile had crept into his eyes. “I never thoughtwhatI am,” he said.
The manager smiled too—in spite of himself. “You don’t think you ’ve made a mistake in assuming that Tetlow expected you to see me?”
John’s eyes were quiet. “No, sir. He said I was to give you all the help I can. I know about the books—orders and correspondence and things like that,” he added after a minute, “I can perhaps tell you what you want to know.”
The manager was searching his memory.... What was it Harrington had reported—a new private secretary—he might make trouble? Ah, yes—“You have not been here long?” he said abruptly.
“Since June,” replied the young man.
“I’m afraid you won’t do,” said the manager, but with a little more respect in his voice. “The deals I want to talk over go back two or three years.”
“I was with President Tetlow then,” said John. “I came about four years ago. During the last year I ’ve been off for a while.—My mother was ill.”
“Mother was ill?” He whistled softly between his teeth. It might, after all, be good luck that Tetlow was away. This simple youth would reveal more in half an hour than Simeon would let out in a week.
He would win his confidence.
He settled back a little in the chair. “Tetlow a hard man to work for?” he asked casually.
John’s smile answered his, “I guess everybody thinks so,” he said.
The man nodded. “I guess so.—They say he ’s a good deal broken, though—works too hard?”
“He works harder than any man I ever saw,” replied John.
“Begins to tell on him, don’t it?” The man seemed to be watching a fly on the window.
“You mean—?” John’s face expressed slow interest.
“I mean he ’s about used up,” said the manager, flashing a look at him.
John shook his head, and the slow smile grew in his face. “Youthinkhe ’s used up and then you find—he is n’t. That’s the kind of man President Tetlow is.”
The manager gave a dry smile. “I’ve noticed that ’s the kind he is, myself.” He turned suddenly, his eyes boring into the young man. “What ’s all this bother about rates this year!” he asked. “Don’t he know the roads can’t stand it?”
“He thinks the country can’t stand it,” said John.
“The country!” The man stared at him, moistening his lips a little with his tongue. He shook his head. “Never heard of the country before,” he said.
John smiled. “President Tetlow wants to make the ‘R. and Q.’ a benefit to the region.” The man sat back in his chair. He spread his legs a little. Then he opened his mouth. He laughed. There was affectation in the laugh, perhaps, but beneath it was solid amusement and scorn. “Sim Tetlow—philanthropist!” He shook his head,—“Look out for him!” he said.
“You think he don’t mean it, sir!” said John.
“I think he don’t mean it,” said the big man.
John’s clear eyes looked into the small, fat ones and the man stirred a little in his chair and sat up. “Do you believe it?” he asked.
“I know it,” said John. “He does n’t start out on things he can’t carry through.”
“That ’s right,” muttered the man. His face was thoughtful.
“He’s always run the road before for the corporation. He’s running it now for everybody.”
“Well, it ’s beyond me.—Idon’t make money for everybody.” He seemed to be digesting it.
The young man had taken up some papers from the desk. “President Tetlow wanted me to ask you about these,” he said.
“What are they!” The man swung his eyeglasses to his nose and held out his hand. “They are affidavits.... about those harvesters....”
“Oh!” The manager sank back a little. He took off the glasses, tapping the table with them. “Well!”
“He wanted me to ask what you are going to do about it,” said John.
“What does he expect we ’ll do?” it was smooth and non-committal.
John consulted the paper. “He expects you ’ll pay for them.”
A little look crossed the man’s face. “Oh, no. I guess not.”
“He asked me to say that otherwise he will take action.”
The man’s face fell a little. “Take it into court—He can’t win.”
“They ’ve just won against the Lake Shore—those planting machines.”
“That was Indiana,” said the man quickly.
“Yes, that was Indiana. But McKinnon has three or four other similar cases, scattered about. He says they ’ve all won.”
“I told Buxton it was a fool thing to do!” muttered the man half under his breath.
“That ’s what President Tetlow said,” remarked John quietly.
“Um-m—Did he? What else did he say?”
John smiled a little. “He said if you were going to try to do him, it was safer to do him inside the law.”
“Hm-m—How much is he going to stick us for?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“Can’t do it,” said the man. He sat up very straight and folded his fingers across his stomach, guarding his rights.
“He said it would be worth that—The whole district has suffered. The crop ’s a dead loss.”
“Why don’t he let them fight for themselves?”
“I guess he thinks he ’s more used to it than they are.”
The manager of the C. B. and L. looked at him a moment. “Tell him we ’ll settle for ten thousand—and not a cent more.”
John made a note. “I ’ll tell him, sir.”
The man was not in good humor. The calm eyes of the young man, and a certain sense of moral inferiority that came upon him, made him restless; and the obvious respect that this young man felt for the President of the “R. and Q.” was not encouraging. But it occurred to the manager suddenly that every man has his price and he drew a little breath of relief, relaxing in his chair.
Ten minutes later, when he took up his hat to go, he could not, for the life of him, have told whether the young man, holding open the door for him, was too stupid or too virtuous to take advantage of a very good offer that had been dangled before him. But he had a distinct impression that he should like to overhear some young man in his employ speak of him as this young man was speaking of Simeon Tetlow.
As he went through the outer room, the manager of the C. B. and L. passed very close to a desk where a bookkeeper was busy with columns of figures. But the manager did not glance that way and the bookkeeper did not lift his busy eyes from the page before him.
The typewriters had been reinstalled in the president’s office and John, in the little upper room, was giving the president of the road a detailed account of the preceding day—including the visit from the manager of the C. B. and L.
“That’s good,” said Simeon. “That’s good—as far as it goes.” But his thin face still wore an anxious look and he sat slouched a little forward, his eyes on the floor. The morning’s mail lay on the desk behind him, untouched.
John’s eyes turned to it. “You saw Dr. Blake?”
Simeon stirred uneasily. “Yes.” He drew a quick sigh and turned toward the desk. “Yes—I saw him.”
He glanced at the mail, but he did not touch it. His hand seemed to have lost volition and when John spoke again he gave no sign that he had heard.
The young man stepped to him quickly and touched his arm.
The man looked down at it vacantly. Then he lifted his hand and touched the spot where the hand had rested. He looked up, a thin, anxious smile quivering his face. “I can’t seem to think—” he said.
“You ’re tired out,” said John promptly. “Did you have any breakfast?”
“Yes, I had—I think I had it—”
“What was it?”
He ran his hand across his forehead. Then he looked at John. “I can’t seem to think,” he said helplessly. “I think I ’m sleepy.... I’m so sleepy....”
The young man helped him to the couch and stood looking down at him. The eyelids had fallen and he seemed in a light slumber; his face still wore its seamed and exhausted look, but the anxiety had left it He breathed lightly like a child.
After a minute John turned away and gave himself to the work of the office. No one came to break the quiet, and the figure on the couch did not stir.
Late in the afternoon he sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking confusedly about the office. “I’ve been asleep!” he said in a tone of surprise.
“Are you rested, sir?”
“First rate.” He shook himself a little and got up from the couch. “Mail come?”
“Yes, sir.” He handed him the letters.
“I ’ve answered these.” He handed him another pile ready for signature.
Simeon read them through with untroubled face, and signed those that were ready. He seemed more like himself than John had seen him for weeks; but the young man, watching him anxiously, was afraid to question him again.
When the letters were finished, Simeon turned to him with a smile. “Blake’s an old granny!” he said.
The young man made no reply. His steady eyes were on the thin face.
Simeon nodded re-assuringly. “I ’m all right.—You ’d ’a’ thought, to hear him talk, the funeral was to-morrow.” He gave a short laugh. “I guess he hypnotized me for a spell. I knew I’d be all right as soon as I got back to you.” He smiled at the youth affectionately.
“What did he say?” asked John.
Simeon reflected. “Said I must stop—right off—Be an idiot if I did n’t.—Idiot if I did!” he muttered shortly.
“Youcouldstop—for a while?” It was the merest suggestion.
But the man turned fiercely—the old trembling awake in him. “You don’t know! Youcan’tknow!” He threw the words from him. “You ’ve staved off Nixon. But there are other things—worse things than Nixon—”
“I don’t know anything much worse,” said John quietly.
Simeon stared at him a minute. Then he turned it aside with a motion of his hand. He leaned forward, speaking low and fast—“The directors—two weeks off—two weeks—Imuststay, I tell you!”
“Yes, sir.” It was the old tone of quiet deference and Simeon yielded to it. “Give me two weeks,” he said more quietly. “Let me meet them with a straight record—and then—”
“And then?” The watching eyes held him.
“Then I ’ll go,” he said grudgingly, “—If you make me.”
John weighed it for a minute. “Did you ask Dr. Blake about the two weeks?” he said.
Simeon fidgeted at his desk.
“Did you?”
“Yes.” It was a growl, half-defiant.
The silence in the room was unbroken. John began to arrange things for the night. The man at the desk watched him, resentful, suspicious.
When the room was in order, the young man came across. He placed his hand on Simeon’s shoulder. “All ready, sir.”
Simeon started a little. He motioned to the chair. “Sit down.”
The young man sat down, looking at him quietly.
Simeon was holding a paper, fingering it absently; he had retained it when John put away the others, covering it with his hand. He glanced down at it now once or twice, as if about to speak. But when he opened his lips, it was not about the paper.
“Blake does n’t know,” he said harshly. The young man’s face clouded. “Don’t you trust him, sir?”
Simeon spun the paper a little contemptuously on the desk. “I trust him—Yes—I trust Blake where he knows.”
“He knows about you, sir.” John, remembering the minute accounts he had given of Simeon’s condition, smiled a little as he said it.
But the eyes looking into his did not smile. They held a kind of dumb fear, and the man shook his head. “He does n’t know—”
“Why did n’t you tell him sir?”
“I could n’t!” He glanced cautiously over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “He would n’t have believed—nobody ’d believe!”
“But he might help, sir.”
The man shook his head dully. “He can’t help. Nobody ’can help.—I ’ve had my chance—” He broke off and sat staring before him, as if at some nameless thing.
The young man watched him with perplexed eyes. Something mysterious, terrible, held the man in its grip—some intangible thing. Almost, it seemed to him, he conld put out his hand and touch it. Then, in a breath, it was not there.... There was only Simeon—sitting with pitifully bowed head, fingering the paper.
He looked up after a minute. “The Bard-well lease expires today,” he said, holding up the paper.
John nodded. He was not thinking of the Bardwell lease. He was trying to follow the elusive clue that had looked out at him and withdrawn....
“The road takes possession tomorrow,” said Simeon.
“Yes, sir.” John’s mind came back to the farm.
“I ’d thought—” Simeon hesitated, “I ’d thought we might put some one on, for the winter.”
“Rent it?” asked John.
“No—we can’t rent it till spring; Nobody would want it now, but we could put some one on.” He waited a minute. “There ’s your friend—Tomlinson—”
John leaned forward, his face alight—“He’d like it, sir. He used to live on a farm—in Scotland.”
“I judged as much,” said Simeon drily. “He can have it, rent free, till spring. Then the road will talk about terms—we shan’t be hard on him.” He said the last words with a little gulp. He was looking down at the paper trembling in his hands.
“He will like it,” said John heartily. “And it will be good for the little Tomlinsons—There are two children, you know?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” said Simeon wearily. “I don’t care—whether there are children—or not. He can have the farm, if he wants it, rent free.” He looked about for his hat. “I ’m going home,” he said. “I’m tired.”
The freshness of his sleep had left him. He was old and haggard once more. And John, as he handed him his hat, was struck anew by the misery in the face.
“I am going in a minute, sir. Don’t you want me to walk along with you?”
“No, no. I ’m all right. Stay and write your letter. You’d better send it tonight.”