Simeon tossed the last telegram to John with a grunt. “We ’ll have to give it up,” he said grimly, “it’s too late. But they shall pay for it—if there is a law in the land, they shall make it good—every cent. Think of that crop—wasted for deviltry!” He groaned suddenly and the hand resting on the desk trembled heavily.
“You could n’t have helped it, sir,” said John. “They would have done it, anyway, and you’ve made them trouble enough.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know.” He turned his head restlessly, as if pursued. “I think any other man would have made ’em.”
The young man laughed out. “They ’re afraid of you, sir—for their life! You ’ve made the ’R. and Q.’”
The man gulped a little. He glanced suspiciously at the door. “I’ve ruined it, I think,” he said slowly. “There ’s a curse on everything I touch!”
“Nonsense! Look at me!” The young man threw back his head, choosing the first words at hand to banish the look in Simeon’s face. It was this look—the shadow haunting the eyes, that troubled him. Sometimes when he turned and caught it, his own heart seemed suddenly to stop its beat, at what it saw there. “Look at me!” he said laughing. “You have n’t ruined me!”
The man looked at him—a long, slow, hopeless look. Then he shook his head. “It’s no use, John. I’m broken—! The road has used all of me—” He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed on the floor.... A memory rang in his ear. The high Scotch voice thrilled through it. “They’ve not gi’e their strength to the road, as I have. The road’s had all o’ me.”
That night John visited Dr. Blake again.