Hour after hour, he sits on the porch with his hands lying open in his lap, looking at them without a word.

He won't look me in the face any more, and he don't sleep.

Night after night, he has walked the floor until morning.

And he will go on that way for days together, very silent, without a word, and sitting still in his chair, and then, all of a sudden, he will break out--oh, Mr.Derrick, it is terrible--into an awful rage, cursing, swearing, grinding his teeth, his hands clenched over his head, stamping so that the house shakes, and saying that if S.Behrman don't give him back his money, he will kill him with his two hands.

But that isn't the worst, Mr.Derrick.He goes to Mr.Caraher's saloon now, and stays there for hours, and listens to Mr.Caraher.There is something on my son's mind; I know there is--something that he and Mr.Caraher have talked over together, and I can't find out what it is.