"I don't understand...."
"You've learned all I have to teach you, lad." Good's deep voice was low, but it reverberated sonorously in the little room. "You're on the bridge now. You're in deep water. You can drop the pilot."
"What the dickens are you driving at, anyway?"
"I'm quitting, Roger." The words were said almost in a whisper, and the deep-set, wistful eyes gleamed very tenderly. "My work's done. It's up to you now."
"You don't mean ... you're not leaving the paper? Why, that's nonsense! It can't be. What's upset you, anyhow? Oh, come, this won't do, you know. I won't have it. I simply won't. Why, good Lord, man—I'd be lost!"
"No." Good shook his head and his voice vibrated as if he found it difficult to hold it in check. "You're free now. This talk proved it. You don't need me any longer. I've done my work. It's time to wander."
"But w-w-why?" stammered Roger. "Can't you give any reason? What's the trouble at the bottom of it? You haven't had a fuss with sis, have you? Surely you're not doing this just because I'm more on my feet than I was? I'm far from not needing you, God knows. Aren't there other reasons?"
"Yes," said Good dully, "there are other reasons."
"Well, good Lord," cried Roger in exasperation mingled with alarm. "Won't you tell them?"
"No," said Good shortly, "I won't." Then, abruptly, he held out his hand. "Good-bye, lad. Here's luck." His voice broke, and he turned. Before Roger could get around the desk to him, the door had closed and he was gone.