IX

SImeon was looking over his mail, grumbling and fussing. He pushed a

pile of letters toward John when he returned from luncheon. “They’re

coming in--thick and fast,” he said.

“What are they?”

“Damages.” He was scowling absently at the sheet in his hand. “Mail was

full of it this morning. Here’s another.” He tossed it to the boy.

John gathered them up, looking at them thoughtfully.

“Take ’em to McKinnon,” said Simeon. “He ’ll tend to ’em for us.”

“Shall I read them first?”

Simeon snorted a little. “Read ’em?--Yes, read ’em, if you want to. You

won’t find them very entertaining. _I_ did n’t.”

The boy was turning them over slowly.

“I ’ll pay ’em--every just claim,” said the old man. His shoulders were

hunched a little forward, as if he were talking to himself. “I ’ll pay

the just ones--every last cent. But the fakes can look out--that’s all!”

His jaw set itself firmly.

The boy had taken them to his desk and was going through them, making

notes from them slowly. The heavy look in his face held a kind of pain.

He was seeing it again--the wreck--the flare of fire; there were groans

about him and shrill calls--hysterical women--and there had been a

child.... He glanced across at Simeon.

The old man’s face, bent to his work, was gray and haggard. He looked

up, meeting the boy’s eye.

“It ’s a terrible thing!” he said as if answering the look. “I can’t get

it out of my mind.” His hand shook a little reaching for the paper. “I’d

give the year’s profits--” he said slowly.

“Have to,” said the boy quietly.

The shrewd business look flashed back to the man’s face. “You can’t

tell,” he said brusquely. “We shall settle ’em out of court--all we

can.”

“Won’t it cost more?”

“A little, maybe. Some we ’ll pay a little more, perhaps, than the court

would allow. But it ’s cheaper--in the end. The public won’t get scared.

It’s bad having things gone over and raked up for folks to read. Let ’em

sleep. We ’re ready and willing to pay costs--Keep the thing quiet. It’s

only the fakes that bother--” He gave a little sigh.

The boy was staring at the letter in his hand. He put it down and

crossed to Simeon’s desk, taking oat the handful of notes he had made

the night of the wreck. He ran them through his fingers and replaced

them, smiling a little. “What’s tha?” asked Simeon.

“I wanted to see if I made a note. I don’t think I did, but I can

remember.” He went over and picked up the letter again. “It ’s this man

Spaulding.”

A light shot to Simeon’s face.

“I think I saw him there.”

“You did!” The light had gone out suddenly. “Fight it--You testify in

court.”

The boy was looking down at the letter thoughtfully. “It ’s a good thing

I asked,” he said.

“Asked what?”

“His name,” said the hoy. “I don’t know why I did it. One of the

brakemen told me. He limps a little, does n’t he?”

“He ’s the man,” said Simeon promptly. “Rascal! Known him thirty years.

He could n’t tell the straight truth if he tried--no more ’n he can walk

straight.” His mouth shut grimly. “He won’t get a cent out of _this_

road--not while _I_ run it!”

“I don’t think he will,” said the boy quietly. “He was there--at the

wreck. I saw him. But he came in a buggy.”

“Buggy?” Simeon sat up.

The boy nodded. “And he went away in it.-It was while I was looking

after the freight--along toward the end. I had sealed the cars that

were n’t broken up and I was trying to tally odds and ends--Things were

scattered, you know?”

The man’s eyes assented gloomily.

“I was down in that gully to the left, looking after things, and I came

on the horse and buggy tied there--a little way in from the road.”

Simeon was smiling now, a look of exultation in his eyes. “You saw him?”

“He came down and got in while I was there--”

“See you?”

“It was a little off in the trees where I was; but I saw him quite

plainly. It was getting light then--four o’clock, at least.”

Simeon chuckled. He reached out a hand. “Let’s have his claim--Twenty

thousand, is it?” He looked at it. “Ten cents would buy him--body and

soul!” he said scornfully. “Just like him--to hear of it and drive

across country--five miles--to get evidence!” He looked at John

shrewdly. “Perjury’s a good thing--put him where he belongs--where he

’ll stay put, too. He won’t go driving across country, making up claims

for damages for quite a spell, likely, if he pushes this one.” He tapped

the paper in his hand. “Twenty thousand he wants, does he? Let him get

it--work for it--making shoes!” He replaced the letter in his desk.

“We ’ll keep that,” he said. “We won’t trouble McKinnon with it--not

just yet.”

He returned to his work, a look of satisfaction in his face, and went

through the remaining letters, laying them one side, making a note for

reference. “That’s all!” He placed the last one on its pile and gathered

up the bunch. “There ’s one thing I ’ve noticed,” he said drily, “folks

that get to handing in their claims inside of twenty-four hours ain’t

very badly damaged.”

The boy looked up absently. “Did you mean this, sir?” He had picked up

a letter from the pile and he brought it across, laying it on Simeon’s

desk. Across one corner of it a note was scrawled in Simeon’s small,

crabbed hand.

He looked at it with a snort. “Why should n’t I?” he demanded.

John surveyed it thoughtfully. “I did n’t know but you would like to

read it again.” Simeon took it in his hand. “I’ve read it a number of

times already,” he said. “You see what it means, don’t you?” He was

looking over the top of his glasses at the boy’s face.

The boy nodded. “They mean that you will promise to hold to the rates of

the last two years.”

“They don’t say so--”

“It _means_ that,” said the boy.

Simeon nodded. “That’s what I make out. Well--I don’t do it--I don’t

promise the C., B. and L. anything. You understand?--not _anything!_” He

was glaring at the boy.

“Yes, sir.” He held out a hand. “I only wanted to make sure.”

Simeon handed him the letter. “The C., B. and L. is a big road,” he

said. “They ’ve got smart men, but they can’t run the ’R. and Q.’--not

yet.” He pointed to the words scrawled in the corner. “You write what

I’ve marked there. Don’t let it go downstairs.”

The boy went back to his desk.

Simeon wrote with level brows, scowling at the paper before him.

By-and-by he looked up. The boy, bending over his desk, had a troubled

look. The president of the road watched him a few minutes in silence. He

pushed back his papers. “Oh, John--?”

The boy looked up. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you worry about that. It gives them a chance to cut. But they’ve

been doing it all along on the side. I have pretty clear proof they

carried Thornton & Birdwell last year for six--five and three-quarters,

part of the time, and a rebate besides.”

“But this means open fight,” said the boy. He was looking down at the

note.

“And it ’s what I want,” said Simeon quickly. “They’ve had their spies

on me long enough. Let ’em come out and fight for what they get.”

The boy was still looking at the paper, a question in his eyes. “You

don’t think they will connect with the Bridgewater terminus?” he said.

Simeon’s eyes were on him shrewdly. “I think they ’ll _try_ to.”

“And if they--do--?”

“If they do, they ’ll find they can’t--not this year, nor next.”

The boy looked up quickly.

Simeon nodded. “You remember telling me last year that the Bardwell farm

would block their road and that you thought it could be got?”

“I knew they needed money,” said John. “They took a fair price,” said

the old man drily.

The boy’s face lighted slowly--“They can’t put through their road!”

“Not without a lot of trouble. They can compel us to sell--maybe. But it

will take time--and it will take a lot of money,” he said grimly.

The boy’s face answered the look in his. “You going to fight ’em?”

The man nodded slowly. “I ’m going to fight ’em.” He touched the letter

with his hand. “Do you know what that rate would mean for the road?”

“It has paid pretty well for two years,” said the boy thoughtfully.

“And it would pay again,” said the man. He looked at the boy. “It would

pay three years--perhaps four--for the road. But it would n’t pay the

country.”

The boy looked at him, a little puzzled light in his face.

Simeon surveyed him a minute. Then he turned away, as if half ashamed.

“What did you find out from McElwain about those boilers?”

The boy glanced at the clock. “He ’s to have the statement at five. I

’ll get it now.” When he had gone from the room, the man sat looking

thoughtfully at his desk. He could not understand the feeling that had

suddenly gripped him--a kind of shame--holding him back from revealing

to the boy his purpose. He had faced the world with selfishness, but

when virtue tried to look out from his eyes, they had faltered and

turned away.

X

John went slowly down the stairs, pondering the quick words that had

been spoken. What did it mean? He had never known the President of the

“R. and Q.” to give a thought for any one or anything--except the road.

He must be going to pieces--talking about the good of the country. ...

The boy had always felt, in a vague way, the region hating Simeon--his

hand against every man and every man’s hand against him--and John had

been his henchman, serving him faithfully; his quarrels had been John’s

quarrels and his battles John’s battles. Again and again the boy’s

heavier hand had steadied his; they had fought to win and they had given

no quarter. But now.... The boy’s brow puckered in a little puzzled

frown.... Now, Simeon was turning his back on profit.... He was bringing

on himself difficulties and annoyance--What was up? He shook his head

and plunged into the yard.

When he came out, he had forgotten his questioning. He held McElwain’s

statement.--The C., B. and L. account was a clear overcharge--a mistake,

perhaps; but it seemed to the boy there had been too many mistakes of

that kind in his absence; and things were coming to the president of the

road that should never have troubled him. No wonder he looked harassed

and driven. But that should be changed now. He should have the quiet he

needed for his work. The boy’s heart glowed and he whistled lightly as

he sprang up the stairs.

He laid the statement before the president.

The president grunted a little--puffs of smouldering wrath. He searched

out the C., B. and L. statement, pinning them together with quick stab.

The boy was gathering up the letters for the mail, licking each stamp

and affixing it with slow precision in its corner, right side up. It

would have troubled John’s orderly soul had an ex-president gone out of

the office, standing on his head. In the midst of the work he stopped,

his eye held by an address on the envelope before him. He opened his

mouth and glanced at Simeon, hesitating. He drew a stamp across the

convenient tongue and placed it on the envelope, crowding it down

with firm palm, his eye still on the address. He looked again at the

president and laid the letter one side, going on with his stamps. When

he had finished, he bundled them together, the letter that he had laid

aside on top.

Simeon was making ready to go, fussing a little at his desk.

“I ’ll take care of those,” said John. He came across. “Did you want

this to go?” He was holding out the letter.

Simeon dropped an eye to it curtly. “What’s the matter with it? It’s

plain, is n’t it--‘Hugh Tomlinson, Bridgewater’?” He turned again

fretfully to the desk.

The boy hesitated. “I thought it might be his dismissal?” he said.

“It is.”

“They ’re very poor, sir.”

The man shot a look at him under keen brows. “That letter is not about

their being poor,” he said.

John laid it again on the desk. He brought Simeon’s hat, brushing it a

little and holding it out.

The man took it brusquely, crowding it on to his head, and moved toward

the door. He passed the letter without a glance.

“Good night, sir,” said John.

“Good night.” It was a half growl, muffled by the closing door.

The boy finished his work in the room. He glanced about; it was all

right now, except the grime on the windows--and there must be some sort

of shade for them these hot days.... Awnings--? He went to the window

and leaned out, looking for fastenings.... Yes, that would do. He would

order them in the morning. His eye dropped to the street. It fell on

the figure of the president on the opposite side walking slowly and bent

like an old man. It almost seemed to the boy watching, that the figure

shook a little, as with a kind of palsy. The boy’s eyes grew deep,

following him out of sight.

Before he had turned away, he became conscious that another figure had

emerged from a doorway somewhere and was standing looking after the

feeble, retreating one. Then it turned and re-entered the building.

He closed the window, puzzling a little in his mind, half-wondering

where he had seen the man before.... He gathered up the letters from

the table, glancing at them absently.... Then it came to him--The new

bookkeeper, Harrington. The president had told him--The one that had

taken Carpenter’s place.

He went out, locking the door behind him. The letter on the top he still

held a little apart from the others, dropping it into the box by itself,

holding it back to the last, as if hoping somehow to defeat its end.

When it fell with a little swish upon the others, he turned away

hurriedly. He was thinking of Ellen’s face--Tomlinson’s wife--the

morning of the wreck.

“He done it, Johnny,” she had said piteously, wiping the wetness from

her gray cheek. “And they ’ll turn him off, but it’s hard on an old

man--and there’s not a cent laid by--not since the bairns came. We’d a

bit before that, but it went for the boy’s burying--” The boy was Eddie,

killed on the road the year before, a brakeman--Tomlinson’s only son.

John had known him well. They had been schoolmates. “It’s hard on the

bairns,” she had said.... They had come to live with Tomlinson--a boy

and a girl.

He was walking slowly now, not thinking, hardly conscious of himself,

hut feeling the misery in the old woman’s voice. At the corner he paused

a little, staring at the opposite wall. What had he forgotten to do....

The desks were locked and the door.... His fingers felt the key in his

pocket.... And the copy was ready for Whitcomb in the morning.... And

the windows? Yes, they were closed.... But he must go hack. He would

remember when he got there what it was.... With a little sigh he had

turned back. He walked more quickly now.... He would measure the windows

for the awnings. Perhaps that was what he was trying to remember. He

sprang up the stairs quickly and was on the upper floor almost before

there was time for thought. His coming had been swift, and perhaps too

silent for a man in the upper loft who looked up with startled glance at

the sound of a foot on the stair. He moved quickly from the place he had

been standing in and met the boy half way in the big room, his glance

full of nonchalance.

John stared at him a little. Then his brow raised itself.

The man returned the look, smiling. “Jolly old place!” he said, moving

his hand toward the loft, “lots of room.”

The boy looked at him slowly. “No one comes up here,” he said.

“Except the old man. I know,” said the other pleasantly, “but I wanted

some files for the morning--early. Thought I ’d save time getting them

now--Save bothering the old man, too.”

“You did n’t find them, did you?” He was looking into the man’s eyes.

They flickered a little. “Well, I have n’t had time.” He laughed,

easily. “I only want a couple of dozen.” He moved away a few steps.

“You won’t find them here,” said John.

“They ’re over here,” said the man, looking back.

“I guess not.”

The man moved quickly to a box and raised the cover.

The hoy looked in with a startled glance. “Those belong on the third

floor,” he said sharply.

“Very likely,” said the man. “I don’t know about that. I ’m new here.”

He had taken out a handful of the files and closed the box. “I don’t

run the business, you know. But I know where to find things when I want

’em.” He spoke almost as if the last words had escaped without volition.

It was a challenge to the clear eyes looking into his.

“They will be moved down tomorrow,” said the boy. “They will be more

convenient down there,” he added.

“That’s all right,” said the other smoothly. He had recovered his

temper. “Glad to have seen you.” He went softly down the stairs, with

little tripping steps that tapped.

The boy’s eyes followed him slowly. He went into the office and closed

the door behind him. For a long minute he stood looking at Simeon’s

desk. Then he went across to it. He sat down before it and tried the

lid. It was locked securely, as he had left it. He did not open it, but

sat motionless, gazing before him. Dusk settled in the room--shadows

crept in from the comers. But the boy had not stirred.... At last he

raised himself with a little sigh. He had come back none too soon. His

slow, sensitive nature felt things that he could not have said. The

president needed him--more than either of them had known! He opened the

desk deliberately and took out a handful of papers, sorting out certain

ones with mechanical fingers. Even in the dark he knew them; but he

turned on the light for a minute to make sure; he selected certain ones

and placed them together, slipping them into his pocket. Then he turned

out the little looping bulbs and went out, and left the room to the

darkness.