Simeon dropped an eye to it curtly. “What’s the matter with it? It’s plain, is n’t it--‘Hugh Tomlinson, Bridgewater’?” He turned again fretfully to the desk. The boy hesitated. “I thought it might be his dismissal?” he said. “It is.” “They ’re very poor, sir.” The man shot a look at him under keen brows. “That letter is not about their being poor,” he said. John laid it again on the desk. He brought Simeon’s hat, brushing it a little and holding it out. The man took it brusquely, crowding it on to his head, and moved toward the door. He passed the letter without a glance. “Good night, sir,” said John. “Good night.” It was a half growl, muffled by the closing door. The boy finished his work in the room. He glanced about; it was all right now, except the grime on the windows--and there must be some sort of shade for them these hot days.... Awnings--? He went to the window and leaned out, looking for fastenings.... Yes, that would do. He would order them in the morning. His eye dropped to the street. It fell on the figure of the president on the opposite side walking slowly and bent like an old man. It almost seemed to the boy watching, that the figure shook a little, as with a kind of palsy. The boy’s eyes grew deep, following him out of sight. Before he had turned away, he became conscious that another figure had emerged from a doorway somewhere and was standing looking after the feeble, retreating one. Then it turned and re-entered the building. He closed the window, puzzling a little in his mind, half-wondering where he had seen the man before.... He gathered up the letters from the table, glancing at them absently.... Then it came to him--The new bookkeeper, Harrington. The president had told him--The one that had taken Carpenter’s place. He went out, locking the door behind him. The letter on the top he still held a little apart from the others, dropping it into the box by itself, holding it back to the last, as if hoping somehow to defeat its end. When it fell with a little swish upon the others, he turned away hurriedly. He was thinking of Ellen’s face--Tomlinson’s wife--the morning of the wreck. “He done it, Johnny,” she had said piteously, wiping the wetness from her gray cheek. “And they ’ll turn him off, but it’s hard on an old man--and there’s not a cent laid by--not since the bairns came. We’d a bit before that, but it went for the boy’s burying--” The boy was Eddie, killed on the road the year before, a brakeman--Tomlinson’s only son. John had known him well. They had been schoolmates. “It’s hard on the bairns,” she had said.... They had come to live with Tomlinson--a boy and a girl.