Blue-Bird Weather

"Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice.

"You know why."

"You thought I'd discharge you?"

"Of course."

Marche stepped nearer. "Why did you come to me here to-night?"

Herold flushed deeply. "It was your right to know--and my daughter's

right--before she broke her heart."

"I see. You naturally suppose that I would scarcely care to marry the

daughter of a----" He stopped short, and Herold set his teeth.

"Say it," he said, "and let this end matters for all of us. Except that

I have saved seven thousand dollars toward--what I took. I will draw you

a check for it now."

He walked steadily to the table, laid out a thin checkbook, and with his

fountain-pen wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars on a Norfolk

bank.

"There you are, Marche," he said wearily. "I made most of it buying and

selling pine timber in this district. It seemed a little like expiation,

too, working here for you, unknown to you. I won't stay, now, of course.

I'll try to pay back the rest--little by little--somehow."

"The way to pay it back," said Marche, "is to do the work you are fitted

for."

Herold looked up. "How can I?"

"Why not?"

"I could not go back to New York. I have no money to go with, even if I

could find a place for myself again."

"Your place is open to you."

Herold stared at him.

Marche repeated the assertion profanely. "Damnation," he said, "if you'd

talked this way to me five years ago, I'd never have stood in your way.

All I heard of the matter was what Vyse told me. I'm not associated with

him any more; I'll stand for his minding his own affairs. The thing for

you to do, Courtney, is to get into the game again and clean up what you

owe Vyse. Here's seven thousand; you can borrow the rest from me. And

then we'll go into things again and hustle. It was a good combination,

Courtney--we'd have been rich men--except for the slip you made. Come on

in with me again. Or would you rather continue to inhabit your own

private hell?"

"Do you know what you are saying, Marche?" said the other hoarsely.

"Sure, I do. I guess you've done full time for a first offense. Clean

off the slate, Courtney. You and Vyse and I know it--nobody

else--Gilkins is dead. Come on, man! That boy of yours is a corker! I

love him--that little brother, Jim, of mine; and as for--Molly----" His

voice broke and he turned sharply aside, saying: "It's certainly

blue-bird weather, Courtney, and we all might as well go North. Come out

under the stars, and we'll talk it over."