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"I'll do my little part, Beason," he said, exceedingly quietly, "to see
that you are not overlooked when you come back."
The boy rose to go. "I do feel better," he said clumsily, but with
heartiness.
He looked around the room. "I hate to leave it. I've had some good times
here, and I'm--fond of it." The man was leaning against the wall. He did
not say anything at all.
Then Beason held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and--thank you."
For a minute there was no reply, nothing save the very cold hand given in
response to Beason's. But that was only for the instant. And then the man
in him, those things which made him more than a great scientist, things
more than mind, not even to be comprehended under soul, those fundamental
things which made him a man, rose up and conquered. He straightened up,
smiled a little, and then heartily, quite sunnily, came the words: "Take
a brace, Beason--take a good brace. And good luck to you, boy--good
luck."
The door had closed. At last he was alone again.


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