“What reminds you of it to-day?” inquired his companion.
“Young Harkins,” was the prompt rejoinder. “I stopped in at the Banner office to congratulate old man Brooks on the way that young man was running the paper for him, and he astonished me by the news that young Harkins was likely to leave him. He’s got an offer to go to New York and he’s considering it just now. Do you think it is possible, Bingham, that this story concerning his father affects his standing in the community?”
“Undoubtedly,” was the quick response. “A thing of that kind will never die a natural death in a little town like this. It has either got to be cleared up and ripped out of existence, root and branch, or it will go on thriving until Gabriel’s trumpet summons the people to another world.”
“Well,” said the other speaker, “I am glad to know you believed in Dave Harkins, because I rather liked the man myself.”
“I believed in him as I believe in my life.”
“What do you think of the son?” asked Bingham, after a short pause.
“Why,” said Peterson in his nasal voice; “I kind o’ think he’s a chip off the old block. I think if he gets a chance he will make good.”
“So do I,” assented Bingham in a hearty voice.
Herbert, seated behind the partition, could stand the strain no longer. He jumped from his chair and opening the door suddenly, presented himself to the two men. Their astonishment made them speechless. Herbert going over to them, put out his two hands and grasping their hardened palms, he said:
“I have been an unintentional listener to your conversation. I have heard all that you have said about my father and myself, and I want to tell you that I am grateful for the belief you have expressed in his honesty and mine.”