“I don’t suppose you ever thought of that,” B. B. suggested; and Wint drew his hand across his eyes, and looked at Amos, and asked huskily:
“Is it true, Amos?”
Amos grinned; and he said: “I’m like you. I never knowed B. B. to tell a lie.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“You can’t keep a secret, Wint. You’re too damned honest. Maybe you’re too honest for politics. I don’t know. Anyhow, I couldn’t let on to you without your father seeing it in your eye.”
Wint said, grinning a little shakily: “It hurt me a good deal, just the same.”
“I guess you’ll outgrow that.”
“I suppose so.”
He said nothing more for a minute; and Amos puffed at his pipe, and B. B. studied Wint, smiling a little at the young man’s confusion. Wint was flushed; and he was happier than he had ever expected to be again. These two were true friends, at least. Not all the world had turned its back on him. He crossed abruptly and gripped their hands.
“Why, that’s all right,” said Amos, marking how Wint was moved. “If you hadn’t run away last night, before we could move, I’d have told you then. I tried to find you, after. But no one seemed to know.”