The old man went to the door and called to the foreman.
“Here!” he said. “Run and
tell my chauffeur to bring my car over here.
Tell him to drive right up over the sidewalk and across
the lot. Tell him to hurry!”
So, it happened, the great J. A. Lamb a second time
brought his former clerk home, stricken and almost
inanimate.
About five o’clock that afternoon, the old gentleman
came back to Adams’s house; and when Alice opened
the door, he nodded, walked into the “living-room”
without speaking; then stood frowning as if he hesitated
to decide some perplexing question.
“Well, how is he now?” he asked, finally.
“The doctor was here again a little while ago;
he thinks papa’s coming through it. He’s
pretty sure he will.”
“Something like the way it was last spring?”
“Yes.”
“Not a bit of sense to it!” Lamb said,
gruffly. “When he was getting well the
other time the doctor told me it wasn’t a regular
stroke, so to speak—this ‘cerebral
effusion’ thing. Said there wasn’t
any particular reason for your father to expect he’d
ever have another attack, if he’d take a little
care of himself. Said he could consider himself
well as anybody else long as he did that.”
“Yes. But he didn’t do it!”
Lamb nodded, sighed aloud, and crossed the room to
a chair. “I guess not,” he said,
as he sat down. “Bustin’ his health
up over his glue-works, I expect.”
“Yes.”
“I guess so; I guess so.” Then he
looked up at her with a glimmer of anxiety in his
eyes. “Has he came to yet?”
“Yes. He’s talked a little.
His mind’s clear; he spoke to mama and me and
to Miss Perry.” Alice laughed sadly.
“We were lucky enough to get her back, but
papa didn’t seem to think it was lucky.
When he recognized her he said, ’Oh, my goodness,
’tisn’t you, is it!’”
“Well, that’s a good sign, if he’s
getting a little cross. Did he—did
he happen to say anything—for instance,
about me?”
This question, awkwardly delivered, had the effect
of removing the girl’s pallor; rosy tints came
quickly upon her cheeks. “He—yes,
he did,” she said. “Naturally, he’s
troubled about—about——”
She stopped.
“About your brother, maybe?”
“Yes, about making up the——”
“Here, now,” Lamb said, uncomfortably,
as she stopped again. “Listen, young lady;
let’s don’t talk about that just yet.
I want to ask you: you understand all about
this glue business, I expect, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I only know——”
“Let me tell you,” he interrupted, impatiently.
“I’ll tell you all about it in two words.
The process belonged to me, and your father up and
walked off with it; there’s no getting around
that much, anyhow.”
“Isn’t there?” Alice stared at him.
“I think you’re mistaken, Mr. Lamb.
Didn’t papa improve it so that it virtually
belonged to him?”
