“Yes.”
“He....”
Wint laughed softly. “Forget Jack Routt, dad. I’ve other friends. Amos, here.”
Chase’s face hardened; he said, without expression, “Amos?”
“He and B. B. came to me when I thought I hadn’t a friend in the world. You and Amos have got to make it up, dad. You’ve got to. Please.”
The older man hesitated; then he turned to Amos. “All right,” he said. “I ... Wint’s friends are mine.”
Amos got up from the bed and took the offered hand; and he smiled shrewdly. “I did play you dirty, Chase,” he confessed. “I admit it. But doing it—I played a good trick on your son. Didn’t I now?”
Chase said slowly: “Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands?” Amos asked. “Wouldn’t you rather have him as he stands—than the way he was a year ago?”
“Yes. God knows.”