“Dannie's done nothing to you to make you wish to hurt him—for you are hurting him. He don't admit it, but I know.”
“I hope so,” said Ryder, tersely. “I should hate to think my energy had been entirely wasted.”
A look of pained surprise crossed Roger Oakley's face. He was quite shocked at the unchristian feeling Griff was displaying. “No, you don't mean that!” he made haste to say. “You can't mean it.”
“Can't I?” cynically.
Roger Oakley stole a glance from under his thick, bushy eyebrows at the editor. He wondered if an apt quotation from the Scriptures would be of any assistance. The moral logic with which he had intended to overwhelm him had somehow gone astray-He presented the singular spectacle of a man who was in the wrong, and who knew he was in the wrong and was yet determined to persist in it.
“There's something I'll tell you that I haven't told any one else.” He glanced again at Ryder to see the effect of the proposed confidence, and again the latter nodded for him to go on.
“I am going away. I haven't told my son yet, but I've got it all planned, and when I am gone you won't have any reason to hate Dannie, will you?”
“That's an admirable idea, Mr. Oakley, and if Dannie, as you call him, has half your good-sense he'll follow your example.”
“No; he can't leave. He must stay. He's the manager of the road,” with evident pride. “He's got to stay, but I'll go. Won't that do just as well?” a little anxiously, for he could not fathom the look on Ryder's dark face. Ryder only gave him a smile in answer, and he continued, hurriedly:
“You see, the trouble's been about me and my working in the shops. If I hadn't come here there'd have been no strike. As for Dannie, he's made a man of himself. You don't know, and I don't know, how hard he's worked and how faithful he's been. What I've done mustn't reflect on him. It all happened when he was a little boy—so high,” extending his hand.