"No," said Sutton, "I don't mind. But I was looking forward to seeing him again. I called the old home place, but there was no answer. I thought he might be out."
Wellington reached into the inside pocket of his coat.
"He left you a letter," he said, holding it out.
Sutton took it. It had his name written across its face. He turned it over, but there was nothing more.
"He also," said Wellington, "left an old trunk in my custody. Said it contained some old family papers that you might find of interest."
Sutton sat silently, staring across the room and seeing nothing.
There had been an apple tree at the gate and each year young Ash Sutton had eaten the apples when they were green and Buster had nursed him each time gently through the crisis and then had whaled him good and proper to teach him respect for his metabolism. And when the kid down the road had licked him on the way home from school, it had been Buster who had taken him out in the back yard and taught him how to fight with head as well as hands.
Sutton clenched his fists unconsciously, remembering the surge of satisfaction, the red rawness of his knuckles. The kid down the road, he recalled, had nursed a black eye for a week and become his fastest friend.
"About the trunk, sir," said Wellington. "You will want it delivered?"
"Yes," said Sutton, "if you please."