Prosperity had not
softened him; it had given him an arrogance unduly emphasised by a
reputation for rigid virtue and honesty. The indirect attack which Andrew
now made on George's memory roused him to anger, as much because it
seemed to challenge his own judgment as cast a slight on the name of the
boy whom he had cast off, yet who had a firmer hold on his heart than any
human being ever had. It had only been pride which had prevented him from
making it up with George before it was too late; but, all the more, he
was set against the woman who "kicked up her heels for a living"; and,
all the more, he resented Black Andy, who, in his own grim way, had
managed to remain a partner with him in their present prosperity, and had
done so little for it.
"George helped to make what you've got, Andy," he said darkly now. "The
West missed George. The West said, 'There was a good man ruined by a
woman.' The West'd never think anything or anybody missed you, 'cept
yourself. When you went North, it never missed you; when you come back,
its jaw fell. You wasn't fit to black George's boots."
Black Andy's mouth took on a bitter sort of smile, and his eyes drooped
furtively, as he struck the damper of the stove heavily with his foot,
then he replied slowly:
"Well, that's all right; but if I wasn't fit to black his boots, it ain't
my fault.
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