“Those G. A. R. fellows don’t forget it,” Adam would answer. “They haven’t changed their principles. Why should I change mine?”
“But you might make up with Henry.”
“That’s nobody’s business but my own.”
“But when you were children you were never separated. Make up, Adam.”
“When Henry needs me, I’ll help him,” said Adam.
“Henry will never need you. Look at all he’s got!”
“Well, then, I don’t need him,” declared Adam, as he walked away. He went back to his saddler shop, where he sat all day stitching. He had ample time to think of Henry and the past.
“Brought up like twins!” he would say. “Sharing like brothers! Now he has a fine business and a fine house and fine children, and I have nothing. But I have my principles. I ain’t never truckled to him. Some day he’ll need me, you’ll see!”
As Adam grew older, it became more and more certain that Henry would never need him for anything. Henry tried again and again to make friends, but Adam would have none of him. He talked more and more to himself as he sat at his work.
“Used to help him over the brook and bait his hook for him. Even built corn-cob houses for him to knock down, that much littler he was than me. Stepped out of the race when I found he wanted Annie. He might ask me for something!” Adam seemed often to be growing childish.