"I never thought he was," responded his father, dully.
"He has some little sense, I acknowledge."
"If it were only common-sense," said the old man, with a mournful, dragged-out smile.
Roger looked forth streetward, pondering. A long passenger-train shifted its line of glimmering squares rapidly southward; two or three couples passed by on the pavement, respiring the suave air of an early June evening.
"It means money," said Roger, presently.
"As much as is necessary," replied his father, tremulously; "though I never could spare it worse than now."
"And more—well, more dirty work for me." He thought of the Van Horn matter, now as good as abandoned. "Never mind, though; I'm getting used to it."
"You are the only help I have, Roger—the only one to save us from this disgrace."
There were tears in his eyes, and a feeble tremor ran through the fore-arm and fingers that he advanced towards Roger's shoulder.
"Father is not the man he used to be," thought Roger. He felt that his sympathy was largely qualified by the impatience and aversion which must always move a young man when he observes the first signs of physical and mental impairment in an older one, and he regretted that it was so. And he was almost ashamed to feel relieved when his father withdrew his hand.