Roger had been at
work several days and they had already cleared up their affairs.
"Here's something," said John gruffly, "that I wish you'd put away
somewhere."
And he handed to his partner a small blue leather album, filled with the
newspaper clippings dealing with Deborah's illness. On the front page was
one with her picture and a long record of her service to the children of
New York.
"She wouldn't want to see it now," John continued awkwardly. "But I thought
maybe later on the boy would like to have it. What do you think?" he
inquired. Roger gave him a kindly glance.
"I think he will. It's a fine thing to keep." And he handed it back. "But I
guess you'd better put it away, and give it to her later yourself."
John shifted his weight on his crutches, so quickly that Roger looked up in
alarm:
"Look here! You're not well!" He saw now that the face of the cripple was
white and the sweat was glistening on his brow. John gave a harsh little
nervous laugh.
"Oh, it's nothing much, partner," he replied. "That's another thing I
wanted to tell you. I've had some queer pains lately--new ones!" He caught
his breath.
"Why didn't you tell me, you young fool?"
"You had your own troubles, didn't you?" John spoke with difficulty. "But
I'll be all right, I guess! All I need is a few days off!"
Roger had pressed a button, and his stenographer came in.
"Call a taxi," he said sharply.
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