“No-o—and yes. I didn’t know him so very long, but for a time we were pretty close together, considering that he had made his start and I was just trying to make mine. It is queer that he should think enough of my opinion to ask me to help him in such a private job as managing his own boy. Losing his mind, is he, do you think?”
“I guess not. This letter doesn’t read as if he were. I think he means just what he says when he calls you the best handler of men he ever knew. He must have known a great many men—and big men, too. It is a wonderful tribute to you, his remembering you and asking your help and advice, after all these years. What will you do, Uncle Foster?”
Townsend was plainly puzzled and concerned.
“I give it up,” he said. “What can I do? I might get the young fellow a job in Boston, with some of my friends up there, maybe; but I should hardly like to recommend a chap I didn’t know to any of them. His own father’s recommendations aren’t too strong, if you read between the lines.”
“That is true. And, besides, Mr. Covell doesn’t ask you to find him work in a city. He asks if there isn’t something which will take him away from cities.”
“So he does. And what is there down here for Seymour Covell’s son? I doubt if digging clams or hauling lobster pots would suit him, or his father. And,” with a chuckle, “I doubt just as much if he could fill either bill if he tried. I can’t do anything, as I see it now. And yet—yet, by the Lord Harry, I hate to say no to the man who never said it to me.... I don’t know what to do—or say. Wish I did. See any light through the fog, Esther?”
She was rereading portions of the long letter.
“He suggests that his son might come here for a short visit,” she reminded him. “He seems to think that, after you had seen him, and ‘sized him up’ as he says, you might be better able to judge what could be done—if anything. Why don’t you invite him here for a few weeks? It looks to me as if you would have to do that, at least.”
He nodded.
“Afraid you’re right,” he agreed. “I shall have to, of course. Humph! It’s a blasted nuisance, isn’t it. I don’t want company—strangers—around the house—just now. I want to have you all to myself the short time you are going to be here. I can’t spare a minute of you; haven’t got many left. You’ll be sailing in a fortni’t.”