“Clem,” he said, “are you thinking that I stole that money?”
Clem looked up, his face oddly expressionless. “I thought we had agreed to leave that word out of it.”
“What does it matter what you call it?” asked Jim, his voice trembling a trifle in spite of his efforts to keep it steady. “You are thinking it! You don’t dare look me in the face and deny it!”
Clem frowned. “Let’s not be tiresome, Jim. It’s done. Let’s not say anything more about it.”
There was another silence. Then: “All right,” said Jim. “I will never speak of it again—until you do.” The strained expression went out of his face, but it remained white and grim as he seated himself in his chair and took up his pen once more. Now there was no hesitation. The sprawling letters followed each other rapidly across the white sheet. “Friday,” he wrote; “Dear Father: I am sorry to have to ask you for money again but I must have twelve dollars within a few days. This is right important. I want you should take it out of my allowances for December, January and February, so I’m not asking anything extra. Please try hard to send me this twelve dollars just as soon as you get this letter. I’m not in trouble, so you don’t need to be worried any, and when I see you I’ll tell you what I have to have it for. I am well and getting along nicely—”
Jim paused there and stared sadly at the base of the lamp for a long moment before he went on.