“Look here, mate. This thing been about your ringin' me in here?”
“Oh, go away, go away!” Lemuel huskily entreated.
“Well, that's what I intend to do. I don't want to stay here and git you into no more trouble, and I know that's what's been done. You never done me no harm, and I don't want to do you none. I'm goin' right up to your room to git my clo'es, and then I'll skip.”
“It won't do any good now. It'll only make it worse. You'd better stay now. You must.”
“Well, if you say so, mate.”
He went back to his elevator, and Lemuel sat down at his desk, and dropped his face upon his arms there. Toward eleven o'clock Evans came in and looked at him, but without speaking; he must have concluded that he was asleep; he went upstairs, but after a while he came down again and stopped again at the office door, and looked in on the haggard boy, hesitating as if for the best words. “Barker, Mr. Berry has been telling me about your difficulty here. I know all about you—from Mr. Sewell.” Lemuel stared at him. “And I will stand your friend, whatever people think. And I don't blame you for not wanting to be beaten by that ruffian; you could have stood no chance against him; and if you had thrashed him it wouldn't have been a great triumph.”
“I wish he had killed me,” said Lemuel from his dust-dry throat.
“Oh no; that's foolish,” said the elder, with patient, sad kindness. “Who knows whether death is the end of trouble? We must live things down, not die them down.” He put his arm caressingly across the boy's shoulder.
“I can never live this down,” said Lemuel. He added passionately, “I wish I could die!”
“No,” said Evans. “You must cheer up. Think of next Saturday. It will soon be here, and then you'll be astonished that you felt so bad on Tuesday.”