"I'm sorry to interrupt you," stammered the boy, as he motioned him to a
chair.
"Oh--that's all right; I wasn't doing anything, very important.
Just--finishing up something," he added, glad, when he heard his own
voice, that it was only Beason.
"I'm in trouble," blurted out Beason, "and I--I wanted to see you."
The man was sitting close to a table, and he rested his elbow upon it,
and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Trouble?" his voice was kind, though a little unsteady. "Why, what's the
trouble?"
"I've got to stop school! I've got to give up my work for a whole year!"
The hand still shaded his darkened eyes. His mouth was twitching a
little.
"A year, Beason?" he said--any one else would have been struck with the
note in it--"You say--a year?"
"Yes," said Beason, "a whole year. My father has had some hard luck and
can't keep me here. I'd try to get work in Chicago, and stay on, but I
not only have to make my own way, but I must help my mother and sister.
Next year another deal my father's in will probably straighten things
out, and then I suppose I can come back.
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