there pitching a long time after these bastards are,ducking for cover themselves."
He nodded firmly. Dusty shook his head. "I don't think he felt that way. I mean, well, like he was fighting for something. I doubt that he even knew what he was signing. Someone handed him a petition and he just…"
"Yeah?" Kossmeyer waited. "Why didn't he say so, then? That it was all a misunderstanding? That would have let him off the hook."
"Well," Dusty hesitated… he probably thought they wouldn't believe him."
"I see," said Kossmeyer. "Well, possibly you're right. After all, if a son doesn't know his father, who does?"
He stared at Dusty blandly, his bright black eyes friendly and guileless. And yet" there was something about him, there had been something for several minutes how, that was vaguely disturbing. He was like some small deadly bird, coaxing a clumsy prey within staking distance.
"Dusty took out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the package. Instantly, Kossmeyer was holding a match for him.
"Had a pretty rough time of it, haven't you, kid? Losing out on your schooling. Losing your mother. Working and trying to take care of a sick old man at the same time."
"I don't mind," Dusty said. "I'm glad to do what I can."
"Sure, you are, but it's plenty tough just the same. Well, I thought we'd gone pretty easy with you on money, but maybe we can make it a little-lighter still. That's your only objection to going on with the case, isn't it? The expense. If we can take care of that, you'd just as soon we went ahead."
"Well, I – I wouldn't want you to-"
"We'll work something out," Kossmeyer said. "Maybe – y'know, it's just possible we can get by without any more expenses. If I can get your father to cooperate."
"If…?" Dusty's head was beginning to ache. "I don't understand."
"You gave me an idea a minute ago. About your father signing that petition without knowing what he was doing. Now, that might be pretty hard for people to swallow, particularly at this late date. And I kind of think he wouldn't want to make such an admission anyway. If he wasn't any brighter than that, he shouldn't have been holding the job he was in…"
"But what-"
"That petition was floating around everywhere, different copies of it. Maybe someone signed your dad's name to it. You… Here! You're about to burn your fingers, kid."
Kossmeyer reached behind him and procured an ashtray. He extended it in a lean, steady hand.
Dusty ground out his cigarette. "Why would anyone sign his name?"
"Some joker maybe. Some guy who wanted to get him into trouble."
"But why wouldn't Dad have said so if-"
"We-el" – Kossmeyer pursed his lips-" now, that's a question, ain't it? Ordinarily, I'd say he was standing on the principle of the thing. He had a right to sign it, and regardless of whether he did or not isn't important. It's the principle involved, not the physical action itself. But you say he doesn't feel that way, so – That is what you said, isn't it? – so I guess he must have another reason."
He continued to stare at Dusty, frowning thoughtfully, interested and sympathetic: a man helping a friend with a puzzling problem. He waited, watched and waited, and Dusty could only look back at him wordlessly, his throat dry, a slow hot flush creeping over his face. The silence mounted. It became unbearable.
And then Kossmeyer shrugged, and grinned deprecatingly. "Listen to me rave, huh? Who the hell would forge your old man's signature? It don't make sense any way you look at it. All your dad would have to do is call in a handwriting expert, and he'd be in the clear like that."
He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. He slid off the desk, and held out his hand. "Don't want to rush you off, kid, but I got a lot of people waiting and…"
"I've got to run along, anyway." Dusty stood up hastily. "I'll – thanks very much for seeing me, and-"
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He hadn't said anything he'd wanted to say. He'd gotten all twisted around, and
He nodded firmly. Dusty shook his head. "I don't think he felt that way. I mean, well, like he was fighting for something. I doubt that he even knew what he was signing. Someone handed him a petition and he just…"
"Yeah?" Kossmeyer waited. "Why didn't he say so, then? That it was all a misunderstanding? That would have let him off the hook."
"Well," Dusty hesitated… he probably thought they wouldn't believe him."
"I see," said Kossmeyer. "Well, possibly you're right. After all, if a son doesn't know his father, who does?"
He stared at Dusty blandly, his bright black eyes friendly and guileless. And yet" there was something about him, there had been something for several minutes how, that was vaguely disturbing. He was like some small deadly bird, coaxing a clumsy prey within staking distance.
"Dusty took out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the package. Instantly, Kossmeyer was holding a match for him.
"Had a pretty rough time of it, haven't you, kid? Losing out on your schooling. Losing your mother. Working and trying to take care of a sick old man at the same time."
"I don't mind," Dusty said. "I'm glad to do what I can."
"Sure, you are, but it's plenty tough just the same. Well, I thought we'd gone pretty easy with you on money, but maybe we can make it a little-lighter still. That's your only objection to going on with the case, isn't it? The expense. If we can take care of that, you'd just as soon we went ahead."
"Well, I – I wouldn't want you to-"
"We'll work something out," Kossmeyer said. "Maybe – y'know, it's just possible we can get by without any more expenses. If I can get your father to cooperate."
"If…?" Dusty's head was beginning to ache. "I don't understand."
"You gave me an idea a minute ago. About your father signing that petition without knowing what he was doing. Now, that might be pretty hard for people to swallow, particularly at this late date. And I kind of think he wouldn't want to make such an admission anyway. If he wasn't any brighter than that, he shouldn't have been holding the job he was in…"
"But what-"
"That petition was floating around everywhere, different copies of it. Maybe someone signed your dad's name to it. You… Here! You're about to burn your fingers, kid."
Kossmeyer reached behind him and procured an ashtray. He extended it in a lean, steady hand.
Dusty ground out his cigarette. "Why would anyone sign his name?"
"Some joker maybe. Some guy who wanted to get him into trouble."
"But why wouldn't Dad have said so if-"
"We-el" – Kossmeyer pursed his lips-" now, that's a question, ain't it? Ordinarily, I'd say he was standing on the principle of the thing. He had a right to sign it, and regardless of whether he did or not isn't important. It's the principle involved, not the physical action itself. But you say he doesn't feel that way, so – That is what you said, isn't it? – so I guess he must have another reason."
He continued to stare at Dusty, frowning thoughtfully, interested and sympathetic: a man helping a friend with a puzzling problem. He waited, watched and waited, and Dusty could only look back at him wordlessly, his throat dry, a slow hot flush creeping over his face. The silence mounted. It became unbearable.
And then Kossmeyer shrugged, and grinned deprecatingly. "Listen to me rave, huh? Who the hell would forge your old man's signature? It don't make sense any way you look at it. All your dad would have to do is call in a handwriting expert, and he'd be in the clear like that."
He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. He slid off the desk, and held out his hand. "Don't want to rush you off, kid, but I got a lot of people waiting and…"
"I've got to run along, anyway." Dusty stood up hastily. "I'll – thanks very much for seeing me, and-"
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He hadn't said anything he'd wanted to say. He'd gotten all twisted around, and
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