Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door that communicated with Mr. Newt’s room. The haggard face under the gray hair turned slowly toward the messenger. There was something in the sitting figure that made the youth lift his hand and remove his cap, and say, in a low, respectful voice,
“Can you tell me, Sir, where to find Mr. Abel Newt?”
The long, pale, bony fingers still listlessly drummed. The hard eyes rested upon the questioner for a few moments; then, without any evidence of interest, the old man answered simply, “No,” and looked away as if he had forgotten the stranger’s presence.
“Here’s a note for him from General Belch.”
The gray head beckoned mechanically toward the other room, as if all business were to be transacted there; and the young man bowing again, with a vague sense of awe, went in to the outer office and handed the note to the book-keeper.
It was very short and simple, as Abel found when he read it:
“MY DEAR SIR,—I have just heard of your misfortunes. Don’t be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken two or three times, and in our country ‘tis a man’s duty to fall on his feet. Such men as Abel Newt are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately.
“Yours very truly,