"No, I can't do that."
"Why can't you? Do you belong to him? Have you a consideration for everybody but me?"
"I very nearly belong to him."
"You very nearly belong to him!" Witherspoon cried. "What in the name of God do you mean? Have you lost your senses?"
"My senses are all right, but my situation is peculiar."
"I should think so. Henry, I don't want to fly all to pieces. Lately, and with your help, I have pulled myself strongly together, and now I beg of you not to pull me apart."
"Father, some time ago you said that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise; and now I ask you to exert a little of that control. The sense of obligation has always been strong in me, and I feel that it is largely developed in you. I said that I very nearly belonged to this man, and I will tell you why; and don't be impatient, but listen to me for a few minutes. A number of years ago uncle left me in New Orleans and went on one of his trips to South America. He had not been gone long when yellow fever broke out. It was unusually fatal, and the city, though long accustomed to the disease, was panic-stricken. I was one of the early victims. Every member of the family I boarded with died within a week, and I was left in the house alone. This man, this peculiar fellow, Nat Parker, found me, took charge of me and did not leave me until I was out of danger. Of course, there was no way to reward him—you can merely stammer your gratitude to the man who has saved your life. He told me that the time might come when I could do him a good turn. Well, I met him the other day in New Orleans, and I incidentally spoke of my intention to sell my paper. He said that he would buy it. I told him that I would make him a present of it, but he resentfully replied that he was not a beggar. I came back with him to Chicago, and afraid that any interference might offend him, I told you that you should have nothing to do with the transaction. He has an ambition to become known as a newspaper man, and he foolishly believes that I am a great journalist. So he declares that for three months he must serve under me. What could I say? Could I tell him that I would dispose of the paper to some one else? I was compelled to accept his terms. I insisted that he should live with us during the time, but he objected. He swore that he must not be introduced to any of my people—to be petted like a dog that has saved a child's life. And there's the situation."
Witherspoon's cigar had fallen to the floor. Some time elapsed before he spoke, and when he did speak there was an unnatural softness in his voice. "Strange story," he said. "No wonder you are peculiar when you have been thrown among such peculiar people. If your friend were a sane man, we could deal with him in a sensible manner, but as he is not we must let him have his way. But suppose that at the end of three months he is tired of the paper?"
"I will sell it or give it away. But there'll be no trouble about that. It's a valuable piece of property, and I will swear to you that if at the end of that time Henry Witherspoon does not go into the Colossus with his father, it will be the father who keeps him out. Now promise me that you won't worry."
Witherspoon got up and took Henry's hand. "You have done the best you could, my son. It is peculiar and unbusinesslike, but we can't help that."