"No," said Roger very earnestly. "I'm not. I never was more serious in my life. Only you won't understand. People with axes to grind never do. They always get sore when we won't help the job. You see...."
"I shall wish you a very good afternoon," said Mr. Burdick stiffly.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. "As you please. I hope the wish comes true."
The little man ignored the persiflage. He clapped his hat down on his head savagely, and beat what was intended for a very dignified retreat, but which, for reasons over which the poor man had no control, fell short of the intention in several essential particulars.
"And say," called Roger, as his visitor reached the doorway, "don't get sore. Drop in occasionally and have a chat."
The slamming door was the only response. Roger laughed and turned to Good who had sat like a graven image all through the interview.
"Well—how did it go?"
For reply Good rose and stretched himself and yawned prodigiously—all of which procedure was an elaborate simulation of emotions which he did not in the least feel. He then walked over to the desk and carefully emptied his pipe. And finally, with sustained deliberateness, he held out his great hand.
"Put it there, my boy," he said gravely. But Roger had hardly complied, eyeing him curiously the while, when Good's hand dropped and he walked to the window. It was several minutes before he turned and met the younger man's gaze with his own.
"I guess I can go now," he said in a voice which seemed at once triumphant and inexpressibly sad.