John went slowly down the stairs, pondering the quick words that had been spoken. What did it mean? He had never known the President of the “R. and Q.” to give a thought for any one or anything—except the road. He must be going to pieces—talking about the good of the country. ... The boy had always felt, in a vague way, the region hating Simeon—his hand against every man and every man’s hand against him—and John had been his henchman, serving him faithfully; his quarrels had been John’s quarrels and his battles John’s battles. Again and again the boy’s heavier hand had steadied his; they had fought to win and they had given no quarter. But now.... The boy’s brow puckered in a little puzzled frown.... Now, Simeon was turning his back on profit.... He was bringing on himself difficulties and annoyance—What was up? He shook his head and plunged into the yard.  
When he came out, he had forgotten his questioning. He held McElwain’s statement.—The C., B. and L. account was a clear overcharge—a mistake, perhaps; but it seemed to the boy there had been too many mistakes of that kind in his absence; and things were coming to the president of the road that should never have troubled him. No wonder he looked harassed and driven. But that should be changed now. He should have the quiet he needed for his work. The boy’s heart glowed and he whistled lightly as he sprang up the stairs.
 
He laid the statement before the president.
 
The president grunted a little—puffs of smouldering wrath. He searched out the C., B. and L. statement, pinning them together with quick stab.
 
The boy was gathering up the letters for the mail, licking each stamp and affixing it with slow precision in its corner, right side up. It would have troubled John’s orderly soul had an ex-president gone out of the office, standing on his head. In the midst of the work he stopped, his eye held by an address on the envelope before him. He opened his mouth and glanced at Simeon, hesitating. He drew a stamp across the convenient tongue and placed it on the envelope, crowding it down with firm palm, his eye still on the address. He looked again at the president and laid the letter one side, going on with his stamps. When he had finished, he bundled them together, the letter that he had laid aside on top.
 
Simeon was making ready to go, fussing a little at his desk.
 
“I ’ll take care of those,” said John. He came across. “Did you want this to go?” He was holding out the letter.
 
Simeon dropped an eye to it curtly. “What’s the matter with it? It’s plain, is n’t it—‘Hugh Tomlinson, Bridgewater’?” He turned again fretfully to the desk.
 
The boy hesitated. “I thought it might be his dismissal?” he said.
 
“It is.”
 
“They ’re very poor, sir.”
 
The man shot a look at him under keen brows. “That letter is not about their being poor,” he said.
 
John laid it again on the desk. He brought Simeon’s hat, brushing it a little and holding it out.
 
The man took it brusquely, crowding it on to his head, and moved toward the door. He passed the letter without a glance.
 
“Good night, sir,” said John.
 
“Good night.” It was a half growl, muffled by the closing door.
 
The boy finished his work in the room. He glanced about; it was all right now, except the grime on the windows—and there must be some sort of shade for them these hot days.... Awnings—? He went to the window and leaned out, looking for fastenings.... Yes, that would do. He would order them in the morning. His eye dropped to the street. It fell on the figure of the president on the opposite side walking slowly and bent like an old man. It almost seemed to the boy watching, that the figure shook a little, as with a kind of palsy. The boy’s eyes grew deep, following him out of sight.
 
Before he had turned away, he became conscious that another figure had emerged from a doorway somewhere and was standing looking after the feeble, retreating one. Then it turned and re-entered the building.
 
He closed the window, puzzling a little in his mind, half-wondering where he had seen the man before.... He gathered up the letters from the table, glancing at them absently.... Then it came to him—The new bookkeeper, Harrington. The president had told him—The one that had taken Carpenter’s place.
 
He went out, locking the door behind him. The letter on the top he still held a little apart from the others, dropping it into the box by itself, holding it............