David was absorbed in a very sober study as he walked slowly homeward. Not that he shrank from the personal sacrifice that his present circumstances were about to demand, or that any sense of dishonour clouded his thought of the business career that seemed about to close—from this he was absolutely free. But he was feeling, and for the first time, how keen the sting of defeat can be to a man whose long and valiant struggle against relentless odds has at last proved unavailing.
Still reflecting on this and many other things, he suddenly heard himself accosted by a familiar voice; turning round, he saw Mr. Craig hurrying towards him.
"Going home, Borland?" said the former as he came up with him; "I'll just walk along with you if you are—I want to talk to you."
David's mind lost no time in its calculation as to what the subject of this conversation would likely be; during all his period of struggle, well known and widely discussed as it had been, Mr. Craig had never approached him before. David felt an unconscious stiffening of the lip, he scarce knew why.
"I wanted to tell you, Borland, for one thing," Mr. Craig began as they walked along, "how much I feel for you in the hard luck you're having."
"Thank you kindly," said David promptly.
"I don't suppose I'm just able to sympathize as well as lots of men could," Mr. Craig observed; "unbroken success doesn't fit one for that sort of thing."
"Oh!" said David, volumes in the tone.
"Well," said the other, not by any means oblivious to the intonation, "I suppose it does sound kind of egotistical—but I guess it's true just the same. I suppose I'm what might be called a successful man."
"I reckon you might be called that, all right," said David, getting out his knife and glancing critically at a willow just ahead. The spirit of whittling invariably arose within him when his emotions were aroused.