“Fitzpatrick, I guess you’re right. What ought I to do?”
“You ought to go up to his house this very day and beg his pardon, and then wipe out that idiotic charge you made at the police-station.”
“I will, Fitzpatrick.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“There’s my hand. Now bring out your Consolidated Smelting, and I’ll do what’s decent.”
At four o’clock that same day Fitz, with Mr. Klutchem beside him, swung back the wicket-gate of the tunnel, traversed its gloom, crossed the shabby yard piled high with snow heaped up by Chad’s active shovel, and rapped at the front door of the little house.
The Colonel was in his chair by the fire. I had just told him the good news, and he and I were sampling a fresh bottle of the groceryman’s Madeira in celebration of the joyous turn in Fitz’s affairs, when Chad with eyes staring from his head announced:
“Misser Klutchem and Misser Fitzpatrick.”