"It's a shame for a man to neglect an old friend as I have
neglected you."
The Interpreter returned, calmly, "The last time you called was just
before your son enlisted. You wanted me to help you keep him at home."
It was too dark to see Adam's face. "So it was, I remember now." There
was a suggestion of nervousness in the laugh which followed his words.
"The time before that," said the Interpreter evenly, "was when Tom
Blair was killed in the Mill. You wanted me to persuade Tom's widow
that you were in no way liable for the accident."
The barometer of Adam's friendliness dropped another degree. "That
affair was finally settled at five thousand," he said, and this time he
did not laugh.
"The time before that," said the Interpreter, "was when your old friend
Peter Martin's wife died. You wanted me to explain to the workmen who
attended the funeral how necessary it was for you to take that hour out
of their pay checks."
"You have a good memory," said the visitor, coldly, as he stirred
uneasily in the dusk.
"I have," agreed the man in the wheel chair; "I find it a great
blessing at times. It is the only thing that preserves my sense of
humor. It is not always easy to preserve one's sense of humor, is it,
Adam Ward?"
When the Mill owner answered, his voice, more than his words, told how
determined he was to hold his ground of pleasant, friendly comradeship,
at least until he had gained the object of his visit.
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