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.
“You _could_ stop--for a while?” It was the merest suggestion.
But the man turned fiercely--the old trembling awake in him. “You don’t
know! You _can’t_ know!” 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--I _must_ stay, 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 could 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.”