"Let's see, Watkins, your salary is twelve dollars a week," he said
slowly. "If I deduct five dollars a week to cover the balance of this,
it will be just sixty weeks before I could get my money."
"If I could only find the rest," said Mr. Watkins, groaning; "but Sam
says he lost it, and I think he tells the truth. If he hadn't lost it he
would have given it all to mother."
Mr. Forbes was drumming lightly on a table by his side. It was evident
that two emotions were struggling within him.
"Here is the evening paper, sir," said a maid at the door.
Mr. Watkins moved automatically and handed it to his employer.
"Hey! What is this! A death at our store yesterday, Watkins?"
Mr. Forbes had caught sight of a headline half across the paper.
Mr. Watkins bowed; he could not speak. His employer opened the paper and
scanned it hastily.
"Ah! That's right! That's right! Gibson is a clever man! He makes the
thing sound right before the public! Denton, Day & Co. will pay for Miss
Jennings' funeral, yet they say there is no heart, soul nor conscience
in a big corporation!"
He almost laughed as he ran his eye down the columns of the paper, and
for a moment his manner became almost confidential.
"That's one of the tricks of our trade, Watkins," he said with a
chuckle.
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