Calderwell threw up his hand.
“No, no, not that! We haven't that to deal with—yet, thank goodness! There's no woman in it. And, really, when you come right down to it, if ever a fellow had an excuse to seek diversion, Bertram Henshaw has—poor chap! It's just this. Bertram broke his arm again last October.”
“Yes, so I hear, and I thought he was looking badly.”
“He is. It's a bad business. 'Twas improperly set in the first place, and it's not doing well now. In fact, I'm told on pretty good authority that the doctor says he probably will never use it again.”
“Oh, by George! Calderwell!”
“Yes. Tough, isn't it? 'Specially when you think of his work, and know—as I happen to—that he's particularly dependent on his right hand for everything. He doesn't tell this generally, and I understand Billy and the family know nothing of it—how hopeless the case is, I mean. Well, naturally, the poor fellow has been pretty thoroughly discouraged, and to get away from himself he's gone back to his old Bohemian habits, spending much of his time with some of his old cronies that are none too good for him—Seaver, for instance.”
“Bob Seaver? Yes, I know him.” Arkwright's lips snapped together crisply.
“Yes. He said he knew you. That's why I'm counting on your help.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I want you to get Henshaw away from him, and keep him away.”