"I'm
damned sorry to have to do it," he began, "it's a horrible thing to
do, but I can't see that there are any two ways about it. I don't
want to hear you say any more. If you'll come quietly, well and
good. If it was anybody else--but in my uncle's house--and the
community--and--well, will you come?"
The man sighed. He looked ten years older. "All right," he said, "I
didn't know but--well, never mind. My nerve's gone. I never had a
failure, you see. An' I always knew I couldn't stand one. Never even
left a trail. I couldn't afford to, workin' as I did. I always knew
'twas bound to come, though, and here it is. But it's hard. Jim was
telling me last month about this singer that he'd heard was so
careless, and I noted it down for use some day. You have to notice
those things. He never said his friends lived here. I--it makes me
feel dreadful when I think how he'd feel if he knew I'd been working
his _friends_ this way--he'd never stand for that, Jim wouldn't. It
makes me feel--oh, well, what's the odds? But I wish you didn't
belong to Yale College."
Lindsay scowled and motioned to the door.
"Shut up and come on, will you?" he blurted.
The man got up.
"I guess I won't see Jim again, then," he said, "will I? Of course
there isn't one chance in a hundred he'll ever know.
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