Carteret's
name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.
"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"
Dick admitted that he had known himself--slightly.
"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.
"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I
fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not
trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can
of him. What good, I mean."
Dick kept on pulling his beard.
"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend,
Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies but
himself."
Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had
expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are
strangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of
them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to
him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared
not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The
parson sighed and pressed the matter no further.
Pages:
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364