“The college lad—yes.”
“Nephew of Old Drake, Quinliven’s partner, who died a month or two ago,” continued Bennett, sedulously avoiding Neighbor’s eye. “Young Drake is hot-headed; says he’s going to hold that spring anyhow. He—will—require—careful—handling.” Again that slow, significant spacing of the words.
As lifelessly Neighbor answered:
“And—if—I—handle—him—carefully; if—everything—turns—out—all—right, the—mortgage—will—be—canceled?”
“Yes,” said Bennett. He busied himself at his desk.
In a startled silence Neighbor rose, fold after fold, interminable and slow. He fumbled for matches, pipe and tobacco; thoughtfully, thoroughly, he constructed a smoke. Then he raised his eyes. Many a hard Ulysses-year had passed over him, this old Neighbor; but his eyes were clear and unstained yet. They now observed Mr. Bennett attentively.
“Sorry,” said Neighbor Jones. “I haven’t got a thing fit to wear.”
At the door he turned. “Now, I’ll tell you what you do,” he said kindly. He spread out his left hand and drew a diagram down the palm: “You go to hell and take the first turn to the left!”
Chapter III
DUCKY DRAKE—Roger Olcott Drake, Second—dawdled over a four-o’clock breakfast. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his feet on a second chair; the morning paper was propped before him and the low western sun peeped through his windows.