“Well, perhaps they weren’t so awkward, but they didn’t know quite what to do—”
“You knew as well as if you’d been taught,” came back in a growl.
“Well, then, I wasn’t awkward, and I had a knack for the work. What was more, I wanted work. I wanted to work at the first thing that appealed to me. I had no particular fancy for tailoring—you get bowlegged in time!”—the old spirit was fighting with the new—“but here you were at work, and there I was idle, and I had been ill, and some one who wasn’t responsible for me—a stranger-worked for me and cared for me. Wasn’t it natural, when you were playing the devil with yourself, that I should step in and give you a hand? You’ve been better since—isn’t that so?” The tailor did not answer.
“But I can’t go on as we are, though I want only enough to keep me going,” Charley continued.
“And if I don’t give you what you want, you’ll leave?”
“No. I’m never going to leave you. I’m going to stay here, for you’ll never get another man so cheap; and it suits me to stay—you need some one to look after you.”
A curious soft look suddenly flashed into the tailor’s eyes.
“Will you take on the business after I’m gone?” he asked at last. “It’s along time to look ahead, I know,” he added quickly, for not in words would he acknowledge the possibility of the end.
“I should think so,” Charley answered, his eyes on the bright sun and the soft snow on the trees beyond the window.
The tailor snatched up a pattern and figured on it for a moment. Then he handed it to Charley. “Will that do?” he asked with anxious, acquisitive look, his yellow eyes blinking hard.