The young man took up the letter. “Perhaps you won’t need to, sir.” His slow eyes were on the words. “It’s only the rates,” he said thoughtfully.
“Do you believe it?” The president of the road leaned toward him a little, hissing the words at him. “He says what he wants is an appointment for seeing me!” He lifted the haggard face, the bitter laugh drawing back the thin lips from his teeth. “What do you think our stock ’d be worth the next day? I tell you it ’s a trap!” He lifted his shaking hand. He looked at the light through it. “He wants to see me!” he repeated bitterly. “Let him come,” he said shrilly; “let him—” The hand dropped to the desk. “I ’ve lost my nerve, John!” he whispered helplessly. “I’ve lost my nerve!”
“Better take your egg, sir,” said John.
Simeon reached out blindly and gulped it down. His hand quivered as he wiped the little yellow line from his lips.
John’s eyes were on his face—“Had you thought of seeing Dr. Blake?” he asked.
The hand paused in mid air. “Yes—I’d—thought—of that.”
The young man picked up the letter. “Wednesday ’s Nixon’s day, is n’t it? Why not see Dr. Blake Wednesday?”
The man leaned forward. “What about Nixon?”
“I ’ll see Nixon, sir,” said John.
Simeon stared at him a minute—“What would you say to him!”