simeon was looking over his mail, grumbling and fussing. he pushed a pile of letters toward john when he returned from luncheon. “they’re coming in—thick and fast,” he said.
“what are they?”
“damages.” he was scowling absently at the sheet in his hand. “mail was full of it this morning. here’s another.” he tossed it to the boy.
john gathered them up, looking at them thoughtfully.
“take ’em to mckinnon,” said simeon. “he ’ll tend to ’em for us.”
“shall i read them first?”
simeon snorted a little. “read ’em?—yes, read ’em, if you want to. you won’t find them very entertaining. i did n’t.”
the boy was turning them over slowly.
“i ’ll pay ’em—every just claim,” said the old man. his shoulders were hunched a little forward, as if he were talking to himself. “i ’ll pay the just ones—every last cent. but the fakes can look out—that’s all!” his jaw set itself firmly.
the boy had taken them to his desk and was going through them, making notes from them slowly. the heavy look in his face held a kind of pain. he was seeing it again—the wreck—the flare of fire; there were groans about him and shrill calls—hysterical women—and there had been a child.... he glanced across at simeon.
the old man’s face, bent to his work, was gray and haggard. he looked up, meeting the boy’s eye.
“it ’s a terrible thing!” he said as if answering the look. “i can’t get it out of my mind.” his hand shook a little reaching for the paper. “i’d give the year’s profits—” he said slowly.
“have to,” said the boy quietly.
the shrewd business look flashed back to the man’s face. “you can’t tell,” he said brusquely. “we shall settle ’em out of court—all we can.”
“won’t it cost more?”
“a little, maybe. some we ’ll pay a little more, perhaps, than the court would allow. but it ’s cheaper—in the end. the public won’t get scared. it’s bad having things gone over and raked up for folks to read. let ’em sleep. we ’re ready and willing to pay costs—keep the thing quiet. it’s only the fakes that bother—” he gave a little sigh.
the boy was staring at the letter in his hand. he put it down and crossed to simeon’s desk, taking oat the handful of notes he had made the night of the wreck. he ran them through his fingers and replaced them, smiling a little. “what’s tha?” asked simeon.
“i wanted to see if i made a note. i don’t think i did, but i can remember.” he went over and picked up the letter again. “it ’s this man spaulding.”
a light shot to simeon’s face.
“i think i saw him there.”
“you did!” the light had gone out suddenly. “fight it—you testify in court.”
the boy was looking down at the letter thoughtfully. “it ’s a good thing i asked,” he said.
“asked what?”
“his name,” said the hoy. “i don’t know why i did it. one of the brakemen told me. he limps a little, does n’t he?”
“he ’s the man,” said simeon promptly. “rascal! known him thirty years. he could n’t tell the straight truth if he tried—no more ’n he can walk straight.” his mouth shut grimly. “he won’t get a cent out of this road—not while i run it!”
“i don’t think he will,” said the boy quietly. “he was there—at the wreck. i saw him. but he came in a buggy.”
“buggy?” simeon sat up.
the boy nodded. “and he went away in it.-it was while i was looking after the freight—along toward the end. i had sealed the cars that were n’t broken up and i was trying to tally odds and ends—things were scattered, you know?”
the man’s eyes assented gloomily.
“i was down in that gully to the left, looking after things, and i came on the horse and buggy tied there—a little way in from the road.”
simeon was smiling now, a look of exultation in his eyes. “you saw him?”
“he came down and got in while i was there—”
“see you?”
“it was a little off in the trees where i was; but i saw him quite plainly. it was getting light then—four o’clock, at least.”
simeon chuckled. he reached out a hand. “let’s have his claim—twenty thousand, is it?” he looked at it. “ten cents would buy him—body and soul!” he said scornfully. “just like him—to hear of it and drive across country—five miles—to get evidence!” he looked at john shrewdly. “perjury’s a good thing—put him where he belongs—where he ’ll stay put, too. he won’t go driving across country, making up claims for damages for quite a spell, likely, if he pushes this one.” he tapped the paper in his hand. “twenty thousand he wants, does he? let him get it—work for it—making shoes!” he replaced the letter in his desk.
“we ’ll keep that,” he said. “we won’t trouble mckinnon with it—not just yet.”
he returned to his work, a look of satisfaction in his face, and went through the remaining letters, laying them one side, making a note for reference. “that’s all!” he placed the last one on its pile and gathered up the bunch. “there ’s one thing i ’ve noticed,” he said drily, “folks that get to handing in their claims inside of twenty-four hours ain’t very badly damaged.”
the boy looked up absently. “did you mean this, sir?” he had picked up a letter from the pile and he brought it across, laying it on simeon’s desk. across one corner of it a note was scrawled in simeon’s small, crabbed hand.
he looked at it with a snort. “why should n’t i?” he demanded.
john surveyed it thoughtfully. “i did n’t know but you would like to read it again.” simeon took it in his hand. “i’ve read it a number of times already,” he said. “you see what it means, don’t you?” he was looking over the top of his glasses at the boy’s face.
the boy nodded. “they mean that you will promise to hold to the rates of the last two years.”
“they don’t say so—”
“it means that,” said the boy.
simeon nodded. “that’s what i make out. well—i don’t do it—i don’t promise the c., b. and l. anything. you understand?—not anything!” he was glaring at the boy.
“yes, sir.” he held out a hand. “i only wanted to make sure.”
simeon handed him the letter. “the c., b. and l. is a big road,” he said. “they ’ve got smart men, but they can’t run the ’r. and q.’—not yet.” he pointed to the words scrawled in the corner. “you write what i’ve marked there. don’t let it go downstairs.”
the boy went back to his desk.
simeon wrote with level brows, scowling at the paper before him. by-and-by he looked up. the boy, bending over his desk, had a troubled look. the president of the road watched him a few minutes in silence. he pushed back his papers. “oh, john—?”
the boy looked up. “yes, sir.”
“don’t you worry about that. it gives them a chance to cut. but they’ve been doing it all along on the side. i have pretty clear proof they carried thornton & birdwell last year for six—five and three-quarters, part of the time, and a rebate besides.”
“but this means open fight,” said the boy. he was looking down at the note.
“and it ’s what i want,” said simeon quickly. “they’ve had their spies on me long enough. let ’em come out and fight for what they get.”
the boy was still looking at the paper, a question in his eyes. “you don’t think they will connect with the bridgewater terminus?” he said.
simeon’s eyes were on him shrewdly. “i think they ’ll try to.”
“and if they—do—?”
“if they do, they ’ll find they can’t—not this year, nor next.”
the boy looked up quickly.
simeon nodded. “you remember telling me last year that the bardwell farm would block their road and that you thought it could be got?”
“i knew they needed money,” said john. “they took a fair price,” said the old man drily.
the boy’s face lighted slowly—“they can’t put through their road!”
“not without a lot of trouble. they can compel us to sell—maybe. but it will take time—and it will take a lot of money,” he said grimly.
the boy’s face answered the look in his. “you going to fight ’em?”
the man nodded slowly. “i ’m going to fight ’em.” he touched the letter with his hand. “do you know what that rate would mean for the road?”
“it has paid pretty well for two years,” said the boy thoughtfully.
“and it would pay again,” said the man. he looked at the boy. “it would pay three years—perhaps four—for the road. but it would n’t pay the country.”
the boy looked at him, a little puzzled light in his face.
simeon surveyed him a minute. then he turned away, as if half ashamed. “what did you find out from mcelwain about those boilers?”
the boy glanced at the clock. “he ’s to have the statement at five. i ’ll get it now.” when he had gone from the room, the man sat looking thoughtfully at his desk. he could not understand the feeling that had suddenly gripped him—a kind of shame—holding him back from revealing to the boy his purpose. he had faced the world with selfishness, but when virtue tried to look out from his eyes, they had faltered and turned away.
