“Oh, I've not got it in for you. How could you help it?” he said. Then he stopped joking again. “If you want to please ME,” he added with deliberation, “you look after Mr. Strangeways, and don't let anything disturb him. Don't bother him, but just find out what he wants. When he gets restless, come and tell me. If I'm out, tell him I'm coming back. Don't let him worry. You understand—don't let him worry.”
“I'll do my best—my very best, sir,” Pearson answered devoutly. “I've been nervous and excited this first day because I am so anxious to please—everything seems to depend on it just now,” he added, daring another confidential outburst. “But you'll see I do know how to keep my wits about me in general, and I've got a good memory, and I have learned my duties, sir. I'll attend to Mr. Strangeways most particular.”
As Tembarom listened, and watched his neat, blond countenance, and noted the undertone of quite desperate appeal in his low voice, he was thinking of a number of things. Chiefly he was thinking of little Ann Hutchinson and the Harlem flat which might have been “run” on fifteen dollars a week.
“I want to know I have some one in this museum of a place who'll UNDERSTAND,” he said—“some one who'll do just exactly what I say and ask no fool questions and keep his mouth shut. I believe you could do it.”
“I'll swear I could, sir. Trust me,” was Pearson's astonishingly emotional and hasty answer.
“I'm going to,” returned Mr. Temple Barholm. “I've set my mind on putting something through in my own way. It's a queer thing, and most people would say I was a fool for trying it. Mr. Hutchinson does, but Miss Hutchinson doesn't.”
There was a note in his tone of saying “Miss Hutchinson doesn't” which opened up vistas to Pearson—strange vistas when one thought of old Mrs. Hutchinson's cottage and the estate of Temple Barholm.
“We're just about the same age,” his employer continued, “and in a sort of way we're in just about the same fix.”
Their eyes looked into each other's a second; but it was not for Pearson to presume to make any comment whatsoever upon the possible nature of “the fix.” Two or three more puffs, and Mr. Temple Barholm spoke again.
“Say, Pearson, I don't want to butt in, but what about that little bunch of calico of yours—the one you're saving up for?”