“On his mind?” repeated Mansfield, in astonishment. “Nothing more than the work and the political situation, I suppose.”
“I guess that would be about enough for most men,” said Mr Hicks grimly; “but there’s something else wrong with him, He’s just pining to make tracks from this place right now.”
“I haven’t noticed it,” said Mansfield, intending the remark as a snub.
“You bet your life you haven’t, Mr Mansfield. You weren’t meant to.”
“But what is it?” Mansfield turned to face his tormentor; “and how do you know anything about it?”
“Well, sir, if you saw a man fretting like a spirited horse to find himself held fast in one place, and working all he knew to keep himself from thinking, and all the time taking no proper pleasure in his work or anything, what would be your opinion of that man?”
“He might be in fear of his life,”—this was intended to be sarcastic; “or he might”—reluctantly—“be in love.”
“Sir, you have hit the very central point of the bull’s-eye. That’s what’s wrong with the boss.”
“I don’t see that it concerns you if it is.”
“There’s no lady in Palestine that he might have been on his way to interview?” continued Mr Hicks imperturbably.