"Not going to be a printer, then?"
"No, I think not."
"Well, it's just as well, there're an awful lot of them."
While they were talking John Summers sidled up.
"How are you, Mr. Witla?" he inquired.
Eugene looked at him. John was certainly marked for the grave in the near future. He was thinner, of a bluish-grey color, bent at the shoulders.
"Why, I'm fine, Mr. Summers," Eugene said.
"I'm not so good," said the old printer. He tapped his chest significantly. "This thing's getting the best of me."
"Don't you believe it," put in Lyle. "John's always gloomy. He's just as good as ever. I tell him he'll live twenty years yet."
"No, no," said Summers, shaking his head, "I know."