“He came down last night and suggested that I drown my sorrows,” Wint explained. “I—” He hesitated. “You see, Jack and I—I’ve always counted him my best friend. But I seemed to see through him last night. I—don’t count him my friend any more.”
“We-ell,” Amos drawled, “I can’t say as I blame you for that. I’ll say he don’t talk friendly about you.”
Wint, flushing, asked quickly: “You don’t believe what he’s saying?”
Amos shook his head. “I know a hangover when I see one; and I know when I don’t.”
Wint nodded. “I’m not starting in again on the booze at this stage of the game.”
“No; I’d guess not.”
Wint sat down beside Amos on the tumbled bed. “Now, Amos, let’s get down to tacks. I said last night I was going to stick; and I meant it. I mean it all the more, now, with you to back me. The thing is—”
Amos turned his head toward the door. “Some one coming,” he said; and Wint heard steps on the stair, and Mrs. Moody’s cheerful harangue. He got up quickly. His father stood in the doorway.
In the long moment of silence that followed the appearance of the elder Chase, Wint put his whole heart into the effort to read his father’s face. Was there anger there? Or shame? Or bitter reproach? Reason enough, in all conscience, for any one of these emotions. He stared deep into his father’s eyes.