“And I suspect they know why. I 'm sure they know why. People in their condition make no mistakes about each other; and if he receives much attention, it is because it's his due.”
No answer followed this speech, and he walked feverishly up and down the room, holding his watch in his closed hand. “I have a notion you must have mistaken him. It was not two he said.”
“I 'm positive it was two, sir. But it can scarcely be much past that hour now.”
“It is seventeen minutes past two,” said he, solemnly. And then, as if some fresh thought had just occurred to him, asked, “Where 's Tom? I never saw him this morning.”
“He 's gone out to take a walk, sir. The poor fellow is dead beat by work, and had such a headache that I told him to go as far as the Red House or Snow's Mill.”
“And I 'll wager he did not want to be told twice. Anything for idleness with him!”
“Well, papa, he is really doing his very best now. He is not naturally quick, and he has a bad memory, so that labor is no common toil; but his heart is in it, and I never saw him really anxious for success before.”
“To go out to India, I suppose,” said Dill, sneeringly, “that notable project of the other good-for-nothing; for, except in the matter of fortune, there's not much to choose between them. There 's the half-hour striking now!”
“The project has done this for him, at least,” said she, firmly,—“it has given him hope!”
“How I like to hear about hope!” said he, with a peculiarly sarcastic bitterness. “I never knew a fellow worth sixpence that had that cant of 'hope' in his mouth! How much hope had I when I began the world! How much have I now?”