He
met that like a man.
"You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush.
"Not exactly."
"Thank you. But you are a gipsy. Read my fortune."
Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth palm that was suddenly
stretched before him.
"You have been unfortunate," said he.
"Oh, no; you mustn't admit that. Only a little money lost, that's all."
"Is it all, indeed?" asked Summerman, and he dropped the palm. Then he
shook his head. "I do not think it could have served you so. A little
loss!" said he.
"That is because fortune never made a fool of you. Let me alone; I want to
think." He spoke in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is
accustomed to command; but he came very near to smiling the next moment,
as he looked down at the little person whom he had ordered into silence.
Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.
"Suppose you were in my case," said he, "how would you act?"
"I am not. How can I tell?" was Summerman's prudent answer.
These words, as indeed any words that he could have spoken, were the best
that Redman Rush could hear; for now he was leaning with the whole weight
of his moral nature on the life of this strong-hearted, true-hearted
organist.
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