Sincerely and sorrowfully,
Jean Dabney.
Philip returned the letter to its envelope and put it in his pocket.
“Bad news?” Middleton asked.
Philip was of no mind to share personal confidences with his former desk-mate. “Sad for the writer,” he replied. “It is a note telling of the death of a poor consumptive who was on the train with me coming out from Kansas City last spring.”
This casual explanation side-tracked the matter, as he hoped it might; and Middleton went on to say: “So you haven’t come to look for a job? Perhaps you have a better one. You seem to be wearing pretty good clothes.”
“The clothes are paid for,” said Philip with a close-lipped smile; and then, the reticent traditions taking a fresh hold: “I have a fairly good job at present, keeping personal books for a fellow who owns a half-interest in a mine over on the other side of the Divide.”
“Pay better than the railroad?”
“M-m—some better; yes.”
“Had your pick-and-shovel summer for nothing, of course, like hundreds of other tenderfoots, I take it?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that: I had a decently good time and picked up some little experience. For one thing, I got better acquainted with the fellow whose books I am keeping.”