“Nothing,” Roscoe answered indistinctly, not moving.
“Well, I guess that's all right, too. I let 'em wait sometimes myself! I just wanted to ask you a question, but I expect it'll keep, if you're workin' something out in your mind!”
Roscoe made no reply; and his father, who had turned to the door, paused with his hand on the knob, staring curiously at the motionless figure in the chair. Usually the son seemed pleased and eager when he came to the office. “You're all right, ain't you?” said Sheridan. “Not sick, are you?”
“No.”
Sheridan was puzzled; then, abruptly, he decided to ask his question. “I wanted to talk to you about that young Lamhorn,” he said. “I guess your mother thinks he's comin' to see Edith pretty often, and you known him longer'n any of us, so—”
“I won't,” said Roscoe, thickly—“I won't say a dam' thing about him!”
Sheridan uttered an exclamation and walked quickly to a position near the window where he could see his son's face. Roscoe's eyes were bloodshot and vacuous; his hair was disordered, his mouth was distorted, and he was deathly pale. The father stood aghast.
“By George!” he muttered. “ROSCOE!”
“My name,” said Roscoe. “Can' help that.”
“ROSCOE!” Blank astonishment was Sheridan's first sensation. Probably nothing in the world could have more amazed his than to find Roscoe—the steady old wheel-horse—in this condition. “How'd you GET this way?” he demanded. “You caught cold and took too much for it?”