Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

at all,” he said, frowning. “The only thing I can think it means is that J. A. Lamb is so fair-minded⁠—and of course he is one of the fair-mindedest men alive⁠—I suppose that’s the reason he hasn’t fired Walter. He may know,” Adams concluded, morosely⁠—“he may know that’s just another thing to make me feel all the meaner: keeping my boy there on a salary after I’ve done him an injury.”

“Now, now!” she said, trying to comfort him. “You couldn’t do anybody an injury to save your life, and everybody knows it.”

“Well, anybody ought to know I wouldn’t want to do an injury, but this world isn’t built so’t we can do just what we want.” He paused, reflecting. “Of course there may be one explanation of why Walter’s still there: J. A. maybe hasn’t noticed that he is there. There’s so many I expect he hardly knows him by sight.”

“Well, just do quit thinking about it,” she urged him. “It only bothers you without doing any good. Don’t you know that?”

“Don’t I, though!” he laughed, feebly. “I know it better’n anybody! How funny that is: when you know thinking about a thing only pesters you without helping anything at all, and yet you keep right on pestering yourself with it!”

“But why?” she said. “What’s the use when you know you haven’t done anything wrong, Virgil? You said yourself you were going to improve the process so much it would be different from the old one, and you’d really have a right to it.”

Adams had persuaded himself of this when he yielded; he had found it necessary to persuade himself of it⁠—though there was a part of him, of course, that remained unpersuaded; and this discomfiting part of him was what made his present trouble. “Yes, I know,” he said. “That’s true, but I can’t quite seem to get away from the fact that the principle of the process is a good deal the same⁠—well, it’s more’n that; it’s just about the same as the one he hired Campbell and me to work out for him. Truth is, nobody could tell the difference, and I don’t know as there is any difference except in these improvements I’m making. Of course, the improvements do give me pretty near a perfect right to it, as a person might say; and that’s one of the things I thought of putting in my letter to him; but I was afraid he’d just think I was trying to make up excuses, so I left it out. I kind of worried all the time I was writing that letter, because if he thought I was just making up excuses, why, it might set him just so much more against me.”

Ever since Mrs. Adams had found that she was to have her way, the depths of her eyes had been troubled by a continuous uneasiness; and, although she knew it was there, and sometimes veiled it by keeping the revealing eyes averted from her husband and children, she could not always cover it under that assumption of absentmindedness. The uneasy look became vivid, and her voice was slightly tremulous now, as she said, “But what if he should be against you⁠—although I don’t believe he is, of course⁠—you told me he couldn’t do anything to you, Virgil.”

“No,” he said, slowly. “I can’t see how he could do anything. It was just a secret, not a patent; the thing ain’t patentable. I’ve tried to think what he could do⁠—supposing he was to want to⁠—but I can’t figure out anything at all that would be any harm to me. There isn’t any way in the world it could be made a question of law. Only thing he could do’d be to tell people his side of it, and set ’em against me. I been kind of waiting for that to happen, all along.”

She looked somewhat relieved. “So did I expect it,” she said. “I was dreading it most on Alice’s account: it might have⁠—well, young men are so easily influenced and all. But so far as the business is concerned, what if Mr. Lamb did talk? That wouldn’t amount to much. It wouldn’t affect the business; not to hurt. And, besides, he isn’t even doing that.”

“No; anyhow not yet, it seems.” And Adams sighed again, wistfully. “But I would give a good deal to know what he thinks!”

Before his surrender he had always supposed that if he did such an unthinkable thing as to seize upon the glue process for himself, what he would feel must be an overpowering shame. But shame is the rarest thing in the world: what he felt was this unremittent curiosity about his old employer’s thoughts. It was an obsession, yet he did not want to hear what Lamb “thought” from Lamb himself, for Adams had a second obsession, and this was his dread of meeting the old man face to face. Such an encounter could happen only by chance and unexpectedly; since Adams would have avoided any deliberate meeting, so long as his legs had strength to carry him, even if Lamb came to the house to see him.

But people do meet unexpectedly; and when Adams had to be downtown he kept away from the “wholesale district.” One day he did see Lamb, as the latter went by in his car, impassive, going home to lunch; and Adams, in the crowd at a corner, knew that the old man had not seen him. Nevertheless, in a street car, on the way back to his sheds, an hour later, he was still subject to little shivering seizures of horror.

He worked unceasingly, seeming to keep at it even in his sleep, for he always woke in the midst of a planning and estimating that must have been going on in his mind before consciousness of himself returned. Moreover, the work, thus urged, went rapidly, in spite of the high wages he had to pay his labourers for their short hours. “It eats money,” he complained,