Wayne fidgeted in his chair.
“Look here, Tom; this is rubbing it in! You think what we’ve done will tide him over. If it does, all right; I’m not going up there to ask his blessing. The thought of the house makes me sick.”
“Um! I want you to go up there. Things ain’t right there. The Colonel ain’t well; he hasn’t been himself since old Gregory died there——”
“I shouldn’t think he would be,” snapped Wayne. “He wasn’t square with the old man. I wish you hadn’t spoken of that.”
“Um! And the little woman up there’s troubled. She ain’t happy. It would help them both a lot if you would see them. You can go after dinner to-night, and then back to the mines for you if you’re happier up there. But I wish you would come home now and take your desk in here. You see I had a new one put in for you last spring when I thought it was all fixed; that’s the key, and there’s your desk. When you want to go to work you’ll find the key hanging here.”
Walsh rolled a fat cigar in his mouth and pointed his stubby forefinger at the key suspended from his desk lamp by a piece of twine. Sentiment in Walsh was a new manifestation, and he wore it rather shamefacedly. He went to the outer window of his glass pilot-house and surveyed the scene below.
“You there!” he bellowed.
The loading of a dray had been interrupted by a sparring-match between two porters. Walsh’s wrath descended upon them furiously. He returned to Wayne, mopping his brow and lighted a cigar to compose himself.
“I guess that’s all I got to say to you. You go up and see the Colonel. Tell him what you’ve done for him; do it any way you please, and do it now. I guess you ain’t been in a manicure shop lately, have you, son?”
Wayne laughed and held out his scarred hands for inspection.