As he did so he
glanced again at the cripple and felt a little pang of regret. "What will
become of him," he asked, "when I close out my business?" He still thought
of him as a mere boy, for looking at the small crooked form it was
difficult to remember that John was twenty years of age. The lad had worked
like a Trojan of late. Even Roger, engrossed as he had been in family
anxieties, had noticed it in the last few weeks. He would have to make some
provision for John. Deborah would see to it.... Roger went slowly through
his mail. One letter was from the real estate firm through whom he was to
sell the house. The deal had not been closed as yet, there were certain
points still to be settled. So Roger called John to his desk and dictated a
reply. When he finished there was a brief pause.
"That's all," said Roger gruffly.
"So you're sellin' the house," John ventured.
"Yes."
The lad limped back to his corner and went to work at his machine. But
presently he came over again and stood waiting awkwardly.
"What is it, Johnny?" Roger inquired, without looking up.
"Say, Mr. Gale," the boy began, in a carefully casual tone, "would you mind
talking business a minute or two?"
"No. Fire ahead."
"Well, sir, you've had your own troubles lately, you haven't had much time
for things here. The last time you went over the books was nearly a couple
of weeks ago."
John paused and his look was portentous.
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