These sports palled upon him only when he perceived the growing change in Chase. For Wint’s father was in many ways at this time like a child that has been punished for a fault it does not understand. The elder Chase was groping for friendliness; he sought it wherever it could be found; and he took some of Kite’s satiric inquiries in good faith and responded to them with such honest confidence that Kite was touched and faintly uneasy.
A few days after Chase’s talk with Amos, he sought out Kite in the little Bazaar which the latter conducted. It was an institution like a five and ten cent store, and did a flourishing business. Next door to it was a restaurant, also owned by Kite, and reached by a communicating passage. In a room behind this restaurant, knowing ones might be served with anything in reason. But Kite went there only for his meals, and most of the hours of business found him at his desk in the rear of the Bazaar.
Chase frankly sought him there. He drew a chair up to face the wrinkled little man; and Kite was surprised, and cocked his head on his thin neck and tugged at his drooping side whiskers until he looked more like a doubtful turkey than ever. “Howdo, Chase?” he said.
Chase nodded. “Kite,” he began frankly, “I want to talk to you.”
Kite tried to grin derisively; he tried to reawaken the old enmity in his breast. But there was something appealing about Chase, and so he said nothing, only waited.
“Kite,” said Chase, “Amos Caretall played a good trick on me.”
Kite looked startled; then he grinned. “Yes, Chase, he did that,” he said.
“You helped him.”
Kite frankly admitted it.
“You helped him,” said Chase, “because you thought with Wint in as Mayor, the town would stay as wet as you want it.”