“Well, sir, I’d like awfully to have you do this for us.”
“Think that will square accounts, Merrick?”
“Why—why, you don’t owe me anything, sir,” stammered Gordon, “but you said——”
“Yes, and I’ll keep my word.” Mr. Brent sighed and looked regretfully down the street. “All right. Come on, then. I’ll walk over with you and see what can be done.”
“Thank you,” Gordon murmured as he fell into step beside the man. “It—it’s awfully good of you, sir.”
“H’m,” replied Mr. Brent dryly. “You evidently don’t value your service to me very highly, Merrick. It doesn’t occur to you, apparently, that you might ask a good deal more than this in return for what you did for Morris.”
“I—I never meant to ask for anything,” murmured Gordon.
“Hm. More fool you, then!”
There was no more conversation. Mr. Brent walked briskly and it was but a minute or two after three when they reached the field. It was evident that they had got there none too soon, for the big gates halfway along the board fence were open and a wagon with a plow in it was drawn partly through it. That it was not all the way through was due to the fact that the audience, or a good part of it, had gathered at the point of attack and was doing its best to repel the contractor’s men. Shouts and jeers and laughter came from the scene. At the ticket gate young Tim Turner, afraid to leave his post of duty, was peering longingly toward the turmoil. Mr. Brent strode more quickly.
“Hm,” he said, “I don’t see that I was needed much, Merrick.”