McElwin arose after a night of cat-naps. He was up long before breakfast. He stood at the gate, looking up and down the road; and when a peddler came along the banker hailed him and asked if there were any news in the town. The fellow held up a chicken. McElwin shook his head and repeated the inquiry. The fellow put the chicken back into his cart and held up a duck, whereupon McElwin ordered him to move on. At the breakfast table he sat with an unseeing stare. The clouds were gone, the day was bright and the air came sweet from the garden. His daughter spoke to him and he broke his stare and looked at her.
"Did you speak to me?" he asked.
"I said I was afraid you were not well this morning."
"Oh, yes, quite well, I thank you. But I didn't sleep very much."
"You might say you didn't sleep at all," his wife spoke up; "and I don't think you ought to go down town today."
This preposterous suggestion made him nervous. "Gracious alive, don't make an invalid of me," he replied. "I am all right, but an over-concern about my health will make me sick. Did you ever notice that when the newspapers begin to discuss a man's health he dies pretty soon? It's a fact. One newspaper comes out and says that Mr. Jones is not looking well. Another paper declares that Mr. Jones is looking better than he has looked for years. Then all the papers have their fling and the first thing you know Mr. Jones is dead."
Eva laughed; the idea struck her as being so humorously true, and Mrs. McElwin smiled, but it was the sad smile of protest. "James," she said, "you are a man of wonderful judgment, but sometimes you persist in looking at life through stained glass. Something is wrong with you and you ought to see a doctor at once."
"There you go," he cried, winking at his daughter. "Call in a doctor and that would settle it. The newspapers would then have their fling and that would fix me. I am worried, I acknowledge that, but it won't last long. Who is that at the gate?" he broke off, looking through the window. "He's moving off now. I thought at first that it was old Jasper Staggs."
It was his custom to read a newspaper in the library after breakfast, but this morning he did not tarry a moment, but went straightway toward the bank. At the wooden bridge he met Caruthers, and halted to speak to him. It was the first time that the lawyer had ever received the great man's attention, but knowing the cause of the interest now manifested, he was determined to dally with it as a sort of revenge.
"Any news, Mr. Caruthers?"