“I—I don’t know’s I’d better, dearie,” he answered. “I think I do know the truth, but you might think I was hard on ’Bije—on your father. I ain’t. And I sympathize with the way he felt, too. But Jim did right, as I see it. He acted just as I’d want a son of mine to do. And.... Well, I cal’late we’d better not rake up old times, had we?”
“I want you to tell me. Please do.”
“I don’t know’s I’d better. You have been told the story different, and—”
“I know I have. That is the reason why I ask you to tell it. Oh,” with a flash of scorn, “I was told many stories, and I want to forget them. And,” sadly, “I can bear whatever you may tell me, even about father. Since I learned that he was a—a—”
“S-sh, Caroline; don’t!”
“After that, I can bear anything, I think. This cannot be worse.”
“Worse! No, not! This ain’t very bad. I will tell you, dearie. This is just what happened.”
He told her the exact truth concerning the Trolley Combine, his brother’s part in it, and Pearson’s. She listened without comment.
“I see,” she said when he had finished. “I think I see. Mr. Pearson felt that, as a newspaper man, an honest one, he must go on. He knew that the thing was wrong and that innocent people might lose money in it. It was his duty to expose it, and he did it, even though it meant the loss of influence and of father’s friendship. I see.”
“That was about it, Caroline. I think the hardest part for him was when ’Bije called him ungrateful. ’Bije had been mighty kind to him, that’s a fact.”