Please go away. I do not want you to think about me. Lucy."
Montague could read the agony between those lines; but there was
nothing he could do about it. He went over to Broadway, and started
to walk down town.
He felt that he must have someone to talk to, to take his mind off
these things. He thought of the Major, and went over to the club,
but the storm had routed out even the Major, it appeared. He was
just off to attend some conference, and had only time to shake hands
with Montague, and tell him to "trim sail."
Then he thought of Bates, and went down to the office of the
Express. He found Bates hard at work, seated at a table in his
shirt-sleeves, and with stacks of papers around him.
"I can always spare time for a chat," he said, as Montague offered
to go.
"I see you came back," observed the other.
"I'm like an old horse in a tread mill," answered Bates. "What else
is there for me to do?"
He leaned back in his chair, and put his thumbs in his armholes.
"Well," he remarked, "they made their killing."
"They did, indeed," said Montague.
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