“I would go, Mr. Blodgett, but”—
“Oh, I understand all that,” he interrupted. “Of course, if you stay in the cool fresh air of the city, you won’t run any risk of the malaria the Berkshires are full of; I know the New York markets have peas as large and firm as bullets, while those in our garden are poor little shriveled affairs hardly worth the trouble of eating; our roads are not Belgian blocks, but only soft dirt, and we haven’t got a decent flagged sidewalk within ten miles of My Fancy. I understand perfectly that you’ll get well faster here, and so get to work sooner; but all the same, just as a favor, you might pull me out of this scrape.”
I need not say I had to yield, and together we took the afternoon express. On the train we found Mr. Whitely,—as great a surprise, apparently, to Mr. Blodgett as it was to me.
“Hello!” exclaimed the banker. “Where are you bound for?”
“I presume for the same destination you are,” Mr. Whitely replied. “I am going up to see Miss Walton, and if Mrs. Blodgett cannot give me a night’s hospitality, I shall go to the hotel.”
“Plenty of room at My Fancy, and I’ll guarantee your welcome,” promised Mr. Blodgett pleasantly. “Here’s the doctor going up for a bit of nursing.”
Much to my surprise, my former employer entered the compartment, and, offering me his hand, sat down by the lounge I was stretched upon. “You’ve had a serious illness,” he remarked, with a bland attempt at sympathy.
I only nodded my head.
“I hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the office,” he went on.
I could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though I did not let it appear in my face.