XIX
HE went slowly toward the door—a bent old man. But at the door, he paused and looked back, his lip moving tremulously.
John sprang toward him. “What is it, sir?”
“I can’t—go away—not before the fifth-two weeks. Blake must give me that two weeks! You know what it means—if I go now!” His voice was harsh and he lifted his gaunt, shaking hand to the broad shoulder that bent toward him. “It’s ruin—John—for the road! I can’t do it! It’s my life!”
The strong hand reached up to the quivering one and drew it down, holding it fast. “You shall not go, sir. You shall stay here till the fifth—and save the road.” The low, quiet tone was full of confidence.
But Simeon’s voice broke across it harshly. “Blake said he would n’t give me a day—not twenty-four hours!” he said hoarsely, “You should have heard him talk!” He shuddered a little.
“Never mind, sir,” said John. “You shall stay—if you want to.”
The helpless eyes devoured his face. “I can’t!” He half whispered the words. “I’m afraid!”