"Some pretty good men out there waitin' to see you, my boy," said
Sheridan. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Roscoe answered indistinctly, not moving.
"Well, I guess that's all right, too. I let 'em wait sometimes
myself! I just wanted to ask you a question, but I expect it'll
keep, if you're workin' something out in your mind!"
Roscoe made no reply; and his father, who had turned to the door,
paused with his hand on the knob, staring curiously at the motionless
figure in the chair. Usually the son seemed pleased and eager when
he came to the office. "You're all right, ain't you?" said Sheridan.
"Not sick, are you?"
"No."
Sheridan was puzzled; then, abruptly, he decided to ask his question.
"I wanted to talk to you about that young Lamhorn," he said. "I guess
your mother thinks he's comin' to see Edith pretty often, and you
known him longer'n any of us, so--"
"I won't," said Roscoe, thickly--"I won't say a dam' thing about him!"
Sheridan uttered an exclamation and walked quickly to a position near
the window where he could see his son's face. Roscoe's eyes were
bloodshot and vacuous; his hair was disordered, his mouth was
distorted, and he was deathly pale.
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