said the visitor
The barometer of Adam’s friendliness dropped another degree. "That affair was finally settled at five thousand," he said, and this time he did not laugh.
"The time before that," said the Interpreter, "was when your old friend Peter Martin’s wife died. You wanted me to explain to the workmen who attended the funeral how necessary it was for you to take that hour out of their pay checks."
"You have a good memory," said the visitor, coldly, as he stirred uneasily in the dusk.
"I have," agreed the man in the wheel chair; "I find it a great blessing at times. It is the only thing that preserves my sense of humor. It is not always easy to preserve one’s sense of humor, is it, Adam Ward?"
When the Mill owner answered, his voice, more than his words, told how determined he was to hold his ground of pleasant, friendly comradeship, at least until he had gained the object of his visit.
"Don’t you ever get lonesome up here? Sort of gloomy, ain’t it–especially at nights?"
"Oh, no," returned the Interpreter; "I have many interesting callers; there are always my work and my books and always, night and day, I have our Mill over there."
"Heh! What! _Our_ Mill! Where? Oh, I see–yes–_our_ Mill–that’s good! _Our_ Mill!"
"Surely you will admit that I have some small interest in the Mill where we once worked side by side, will you not, Adam?"
"Oh, yes," laughed Adam, helping on the jest. "But let me see–I don’t exactly recall the amount of your investment–what was it you put in?"
"Two good legs, Adam Ward, two good legs," returned the old basket maker.
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