There was a long silence. The elder man sat, his grave look fixed on the younger, who crossed and uncrossed his feet and wiped at his forehead and neck with a folded silk handkerchief.
“How’s your work comin’?” inquired the Judge presently. He took up a pen and began to write.
“Oh, pretty good.”
“I reckon Mister Fruit-Buyer is satisfied, hey? He couldn’t find a better man than you for the place, anyhow.”
“Oh, he’s satisfied, I guess. But I don’t think I—I care to hang on to the job.”
“No?” The Judge thrust a sheet of paper into a pocket. “How long’s Carpenter stayin’ over this time?”
“Till the down train.”
“That so? Wal!” He paused a moment, examining the end of his pen. “Say, you don’t wear your Business College medal no more.”
“I carry it in my pocket.”
“I see. Got it now? I like to take a peep at it ev’ry once in a while.”