“I should be glad to do it, Mr. Stone, if it is anything I can allow myself to do.”
“Aw, cut it!” growled Stone. “Look here. I got a list of some poor mutts I been looking out for, and I’ve just set aside a wad to keep it going. I want you to look after ’em and see that the money gets spread around right. I know you’re square. I don’t know anybody else to give it to.”
To Bobby he handed a list of some fifty names and addresses, with monthly amounts set down opposite them. They were widows and orphans and helpless creatures of all sorts and conditions, blind and deaf and crippled, whom Stone, in the great passion that every man has for some one to love and revere him, and in the secret tenderness inseparable from all big natures, had made his pensioners.
“There ain’t a soul on earth knows about these but me, and every one of ’em is wise to it that if they ever blat a word about it the pap’s cut off. I don’t want a thing, not even a hint, printed about this—see? I ain’t afraid that you’ll use it in the paper after me asking you not to, so I don’t ask you for any promise.”
“I’ll do it with pleasure,” offered Bobby.
“Well, I guess that’s about all,” said Stone, and turned to go.
Bobby came from behind his desk.
“After all, Stone,” he said, with some hesitation, “I’m sorry to lose an enemy so worth while. I wish you good luck wherever you are going,” and he held out his hand.
Stone looked at the proffered hand and shook his head.
“I’d rather smash your face,” he growled, and passed out of the door.