Dale grew suddenly sick at heart. If Long had only come! Recalling his discouraging words, a shadow crept over the old man's mind. Could it be possible he had not tried the month before?
Such misgivings soon vanished. "This is a trying office, Mr. Dale. With all my feelings I had to hold in abeyance the only favor he ever asked; it was about a pardon in a murder case over thirty-five years ago. He said it was the most cruel case of circumstantial evidence in the books—possibly you may know about the case."
The old man struggled back in his chair, then arose, his rough hand brushing thin locks back from a temple where the veins seemed swelling to the danger point. He was unable to summon more than a whisper from his shrunken throat.
"Yes, Mr. President, I do—he's my boy!"
"Your—boy! Yes—that's the name—how stupid of me—I beg your pardon, Mr. Dale—a thousand times."
They stared a long while at each other and Dale felt the fears which had fled before his gracious reception returning to grip him by the heart; the speech he had prepared had fled; it had all happened so differently.
At last the President spoke: "Congress is just going out; it's the busy season, but I'll go through the papers to-night myself."
Dale walked to the window; perspiration was on his face, but he was very cold. He stood with locked brain, and into his eyes came filmy clouds; then through these he saw, with sudden strangeness, a cabin far away, and a woman with pallid cheeks looked straight at him.
The President gazed intently as the old man wiped the window pane, nodded his head, and turned to face the table.
He cleared his throat, then opened a flannel collar, already loose, and his eyes glistened.