She came out from her little school and controlled her emotions with
difficulty when she saw his piteous condition.
"Let's walk where I can feel the comfort of green grass under my feet,"
he pleaded; "that may seem real! Nothing else does!"
By her matter-of-fact acceptance of him and his appearance and his mood
she calmed him as they walked along.
"And even Rowley," he added, after his blunt confession of failure, "he
has just turned me down. He won't follow his five thousand with another
cent. The old rascal deserves to be cheated if we fail. He is telling
me that he always believed we would never make good in the job. Is he
crazy, or am I?"
"Make all allowances for Deacon Rowley," she pleaded. "Keep away from
him. He is not a consoling man. But there must be some way for you,
Boyd. Let us think! You have been keeping too close to the thing--to
your work--and there are other places besides Limeport."
"There's New York--and there's a way," he growled.
"You must try every chance; it means so much to you!"
"Is that your advice?"
"Certainly, Boyd!"
He stopped and pulled the sealed packet from his coat. In the stress of
his despair and resentment he was brutal rather than considerate.
"There are papers in there with which I can club Julius Marston until
he squeals. I haven't seen them, but I know well enough what they are. I
can scare him into giving back all he has taken away from me. I can make
him give back a lot to other folks. And from those other folks I can get
money to finish our work on the Conomo. Look at the monogram on that
seal, Polly!" He pointed grimy finger and held the packet close.
"From--Miss Marston?" she asked, tremulously.
"Yes, Polly."
"And she is helping you?"
"I suppose she is trying to."
"Well, it's what a girl should do when she loves a man," she returned.
But she did not look at him and her lips were white.
"And you think I ought to use her help?"
"Yes." She evidently realized that her tone was a mere quaver of assent,
for she repeated the word more firmly.
"But these papers are not hers, Polly. She stole them--or somebody stole
them for her--from her own father," he went on, relentlessly.
"She must love you very much, Boyd."