never forgiven you,” said Harvey, his chin on his doubled fists.
“Exactly. That’s about what I’d do. You see?”
“I see. The fault’s with me and no one else. All the same, something’s got to be done about it.”
Cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking.
Father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid Cheyne’s mouth, and Harvey had his father’s slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheekbones.
With a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a Red Indian of the storybooks.
“Now you can go on from here,” said Cheyne, slowly, “costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you’re a voter. Well, we’ll call you a man then. You can