When we had finished, Gran'pa tipped the waiter twice as much as usual—conscience money!
"How do you feel?" he asked, gently.
The poor, exhausted wretch looked startled and puzzled for a moment, as if someone had suddenly probed into one of the most cherished secrets of his life.
"Like . . . that!" he gasped, dropping his hands limply to his side.
"But why did you hurry so much?" persisted Gran'pa, in an undertone.
"Dunno, sir! Couldn't help it. . . . It was like as if something had 'old of me."
"Where?"
". . . Right down . . . inside!"
Gran'pa chuckled to himself.
"You'll feel better in the morning," he said. "Don't let it worry you. You'll be able to take it quietly again to-morrow night. . . ."