If the boy had known his power or guessed it, it would have vanished, slipped from him, even while he put out his hand to it. But he had always been slow and stupid--not clever like other boys--and needing time and patience for his work. He knew that it rested his mother to have him do things for her, and that Simeon Tetlow needed him. Beyond that his mind did not travel. He could not have told how he knew men’s thoughts--read their minds, almost, when their eyes looked into his--any more than he could have told why certain colors made him happy, or why he had chosen Edith Burton out of the office force for Simeon’s private work. Things came to him slowly. He stood motionless, sometimes, waiting--almost stupidly, it seemed--before a piece of work, a decision to be made--but when he put out his hand to it, he held it with firm grasp. Simeon did not look up when he came back. He was speaking into the telephone, a look of comparative peace on his face. John swept aside the heap of bills and memoranda that covered the desk across the room. Then he looked about for the dust-cloth. He found it in the pocket of one of Simeon’s old coats on the wall. A piece of cheese fell to the floor as he shook it out. And Simeon, looking around as he hung up the receiver, smiled for the first time in weeks. “So that ’s where I put that cheese, is it? I got it one day for luncheon--forgot where I put it--did n’t have any luncheon that day at all.” He was looking at it regretfully. John tossed it into the waste basket, a look of disapproval in his face. He wiped the dust from his desk, arranging the files of papers he had collected from the floor and placing them in pigeon-holes. Simeon watched, a look of something like contentment creeping to his face. “You found that statement yet?” The question was almost mild. “Yes, sir.” John picked up the paper and handed it to him. “They ’ve made double charge on those forty boilers, have n’t they?” Simeon took it and glared at it. “That ’s what I can’t find out,” he said. “I can’t find out.” He sighed impatiently and laid it on the desk while he reached for another set of papers. John, watching the face, was struck anew by the weariness in it. It was the face of an old man. He held out his hand. “Suppose I take it, sir. I ’ll be down in the yard this afternoon and I ’ll look it up.” There was a sound of jingling glass outside the partition. John stepped quickly to the door. “Here, Sandy. Take this to McElwain in the yard. Tell him I ’ll be down in half an hour.--Here ’s your luncheon, sir.” He brought in the tray and placed it on the table, setting a chair before it and drawing the cork from the bottle. He removed the napkin that covered the tray. “Your luncheon ’s ready, sir.” With a sigh of satisfaction, the President of the “R. and Q.” Road rose from his desk. “There’s a fresh towel, sir, and I brought up some soap.” With another sigh, the president of the road obeyed. IX