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Title: Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd Author: Merwin, Samuel Language: English As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available. *** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd" *** HENRY IS TWENTY A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd By Samuel Merwin Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. London and Glasgow 1921 OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS |It would be ungracious to let this book go out into a preoccupied world without some word of gratitude to those who have written regarding the young Henry as he has appeared from month to month in a magazine. The letters have been the kindliest and most stimulating imaginable; and have surprised me, for I have never found it easy to picture Henry as a popular hero of fiction. He isn\x92t, of course, a hero at all. His weaknesses are too plain--the little evidences of vanity in him, his selfcentred moments, his errant susceptibilities--and heroes can\x92t have weaknesses. And heroes--in any well-regulated pattern-story--must \x91turn out well.\x92 Henry, in this book, doesn\x92t really turn out at all. His success in Episode X is a rather alarming accident. I think he\x92ll do well enough, when he\x92s forty or so. At twenty, no. He has huge doses of life\x92s medicine yet to swallow. And all his problems are complicated by the touch of genius that is in him. Another thing: there couldn\x92t have been a Mamie Wilcox in our pattern-story. And certainly not a Corinne. Hardly even a Martha. For a \x91divided love interest\x92 destroys your pattern. Yet Marthas, Corinnes, Mamies occur everywhere. So I can\x92t very well apologise for their presence here. We might, of course, have had Henry overthrow the Old Cinch in Sunbury; clean up the town. But he didn\x92t happen to be a St George that summer. And then, so many heroes of pattern-stories, these two decades, have slain municipal dragons! He might have listened in a deeper humility to the worldly wisdom of Uncle Arthur. But he didn\x92t. He had to live his own life, not Uncle Arthur\x92s. His way was the harder, but he couldn\x92t help that. I would have liked to pursue further the Mildred-Humphrey romance; including Arthur V. and the curious triangle that resulted; but the crisis didn\x92t come in that year. And against the temptation to dwell with Madame Watt and her husband I have had, here, to set my face. Though something of that story will be told in a book yet to come, dealing with an older, changed Henry. The richly dramatic career of _Madame_ underlay the irony of Henry\x92s marriage; and we shall have to deal with that, or at least with the events that grew out of it. I have said that Henry would turn out well enough in time. From the angle of the pattern-story this obviously couldn\x92t be. It would be said that if he _was_ ever to succeed he should have got started by this time in habits of industry and so forth. I won\x92t say that this is nonsense, but instead will quote from the autobiography of Charles Francis Adams (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916). Mr Adams, from his fifteenth to his twenty-fifth year, kept a diary. Then he sealed the volumes in a package. Thirty years later he opened the package and read every word. He says:-- \x91The revelation of myself to myself was positively shocking.... It wasn\x92t that the thing was bad or that my record was discreditable; it was worse! It was silly. That it was crude, goes without saying. _That_ I didn\x92t mind! But I did blush and groan and swear over its unmistakable, unconscious immaturity and ineptitude, its conceit, its weakness and its cant.... As I finished each volume it went into the fire; and I stood over it until the last leaf was ashes.... I have never felt the same about myself since. I now humbly thank fortune that I have got almost through life without making a conspicuous ass of myself.\x92 Mr Adams, immediately after the period covered by the diary, plunged into the Civil War, and emerged with the well-earned brevet rank of brigadier-general. He was later eminent as publicist, author, administrator, a recognised leader of thought in a troublous time. He became president of the Union Pacific Railroad. And at the last he was the subject of a memorial address by the Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge. As Henry is still several years short of twenty-five perhaps there is hope for him. Concord, Mass. S. M. I--THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL 1 |It was late May in Sunbury, Illinois, and twenty minutes past eight in the morning. The spacious lawns and the wide strips of turf between sidewalk and roadway in every avenue and street were lush with crowding young blades of green. The maples, oaks, and elms were vivid with the exuberant youth of the year. Throughout the village, brisk young men, care-worn men of middle age, a few elderly men were hurrying toward the old red-brick station whence the eight-twenty-nine would shortly carry them into the dust and sweat and smoke of a business day in Chicago. The swarms of sleepy-eyed clerks, book-keepers, office boys and girl stenographers had gone in on the seven-eleven and the seven-thirty-two. Along Simpson Street the grocers, in their aprons, already had out their sidewalk racks heaped with seasonable vegetables and fruits (out-of-season delicacies had not then become commonplaces of life in Sunbury; strawberries appeared when the local berries were ripe, not sooner). The two butcher shops were decorated with red and buff carcasses hung in rows. A whistling, coatless youth had just swept out Donovan\x92s drug store and was wiping off the marble counter before the marble and glass soda fountain. Through the windows of the Sunbury National Bank Alfred Knight could be seen filling the inkwells and putting out fresh blotters and pens. The neat little restaurant known as \x91Stanley\x92s\x92 (the Stanleys were a respectable coloured couple) was still nearly full of men who ate ham and eggs, pounded beefsteak, fried potatoes, and buckwheat cakes, and drank huge cups of gray-brown coffee; with, at the rear tables, two or three family groups. And from numerous boarding-houses and dormitories in the northern section of the overgrown village students of both sexes were converging on the oak-shaded campus by the lake. All of Sunbury appeared to be up and about the business of the day; all, perhaps, except Henry Calverly, 3rd, who sat, dressed except for his coat, heavy-eyed, a hair brush in either hand, hands resting limp on knees, on the edge of his narrow iron bed. This, in Mrs Wilcox\x92s boardinghouse in Douglass Street, one block south of Simpson; top floor. If the present reader has, by chance, had earlier acquaintance with Henry, it should be explained that he is now to be pictured not as a youth of eighteen going on nineteen but as a young man of twenty going on twenty-one. That figure, twenty-one, of significance in the secret thoughts of any growing boy, was of peculiar, stirring significance to the sensitive, imaginative Henry. It marked the beginning of what is sometimes termed Life. It suggested alarming but interesting responsibilities. On that day, beginning with the stroke of the midnight hour, guardians ceased to function and independence set in. One was a citizen. One voted. In Henry\x92s case, the crowning symbol of manhood would be deferred a year, as Election Day was to fall on the fifth of November and his birthday was the seventh; but that so trivial a mere fact bore small weight in the face of potential citizenship might have been indicated by the faint blonde fringe along his upper lip. This fringe was a new venture. He stroked it much of the time, and stole glances at it in mirrors. He could twist it up a little at the ends. The rest of him indicated a taste that was hardly bent on the inexpensive as such. His duck trousers (this was the middle nineties) were smartly creased and rustled with starch. His white canvas shoes were not \x91sneakers\x92 but had heavy soles and half-heels of red rubber. His coat, lying now across the iron tube that marked the foot of the bed, was a double-breasted blue serge, unlined, well-tailored. The hat, hung on a mirror post above the \x91golden oak\x92 bureau, was of creamy white felt. He had given up spectacles for nose glasses with a black silk cord. Nearly two years earlier his mother had died. He had lived on, caught in a drift of time and circumstance, keeping, without any particular plan, this little room with its sloping ceiling. The price was an item, of course--six dollars a week for room and board. You couldn\x92t do better in Sunbury, even then. Memories haunted the place, naturally enough. Loneliness had dwelt close with him. His mother\x92s picture, in a silver frame, stood at the right of the pincushion; at the left, in hammered brass [\x91repouss\xE9 work\x92) was a \x91cabinet size\x92 photograph of Martha Caldwell. A woven-wire rack on the wall held half a hundred snapshots of girls, boys, and groups, in about a third of which figured Martha\x92s smiling, sensible, pleasantly freckled face. A guitar in an old green bag leaned against the wall behind his mother\x92s old trunk; it had not been out of the bag in more than a year. An assortment of neck-ties hung over the gas-jet by the bureau. Tacked about on the wall were six or eight copies of Gibson girls; rather good copies, barringva certain stiffness of line. On the seat in the one dormer window reposed two cushions, one covered with college pennants, the other with cigar bands laboriously cross-stitched together; both from, the hands of Martha. Henry\x92s little bookcase was not uninteresting. It contained the following books: Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Browning, Trollope, and Hawthorne in sets, Sonnets, from the Portuguese, Words often Mispronounced, Longfellow, complete in one fat volume. Red Line Edition, and Six Thousand Puzzles, all of which had been his mother\x92s; Green\x92s History of the English People, Boswell\x92s Johnson, both largely uncut, and the Discourses of Epictetus, which three had come as Christmas or birthday gifts; and exactly one volume, a work by an obscure author (who was pictured in the frontispiece with a bristling moustache and intensely knit brows) entitled Will Power and Self Mastery, which offered the only clue as to Henry\x92s own taste in book buying. His taste in reading was another matter. The novels and romances he had devoured during certain periods of his teens had mostly come from the Sunbury Free Public Library. Lately, however, apart from thrilling moments with The Prisoner of Zenda, Under the Red Rose, and The Princess Aline, he had found difficulty in reading at all. Something was stirring within him, something restlessly positive, an impulse to give out rather than take in. Though he had, at intervals, lunged with determination at the Green and the Boswell. This effort, indeed, had been repeated so many times that he occasionally caught himself speaking of these authors as if he had read them exhaustively. The bottom drawer of the bureau was a third full of unfinished manuscripts--attempts at novels, short stories, poems, plays--each faithfully reflecting its immediate source of inspiration. There were paragraphs that might have been written by a little Dickens; there were thinly diluted specimens of Dumas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard Harding Davis, Thackeray. The rest was all Kipling, prose and verse. Everybody was writing Kipling then. A step sounded in the hall. The knob turned softly; the door opened a little way; and the thinnish, moderately pretty face of Mamie Wilcox appeared--pale blue eyes with the beginnings of hollows beneath them, fair skin, straight hay-coloured hair, wisps of it straying down across forehead and cheek, thin nose, soft but rather sulky mouth. She was probably twenty-two or twenty-three at this time. All she said was, \x91Oh!\x92--very low. \x91Wonder you wouldn\x92t knock!\x92 said he. \x91Wonder you wouldn\x92t get up before noon!\x92 she responded smartly, but still in that cautious voice; then added, \x91Here, I\x92ll leave the towels, and come back.\x92 And she slipped into the room, a heavier and more shapely figure of a girl than was suggested by the face, a girl in a full-length gingham apron and little shoes with unexpectedly high heels; not \x91French\x92 heels, but the sloping style known then as \x91military.\x92 2 Henry\x92s colour was rising a little. He cleared his throat, and said, mumbling, \x91Leave anything you like.\x92 \x91I\x92ll do just that,\x92--she turned, with a flirt of her apron and stood, between washstand and door, surveying him--\x91what I like, and nothing more.\x92... Her eyes wandered now from him to the picture at the left of the pincushion, then to the snapshots on the wall, and she smiled, very self-contained, very knowing, with the expression that the young call \x91sarcastic.\x92 The adjective came to mind. Henry\x92s colour was mounting higher. \x91Pretty snappy to-day, ain\x92t we?\x92 said he. \x91Yes, when we\x92re snapped at,\x92 said she. There was a silence that ran on into seconds and tens of seconds. Then, acting on an impulse of astonishing suddenness, he sprang toward her. With almost equal agility she stepped away. But he caught one hand. She had the door-knob in her other hand. She drew the door open, then, indecisively, pushed it nearly to. \x91Be careful!\x92 she whispered. \x91They\x92ll hear!\x92 She made a small effort to free her hand. For a moment they stood tugging at each other. When Henry spoke, in an effort to appear the off-hand man of the world he assuredly was not, his voice sounded weak and husky. \x91Whew--strong!\x92 \x91Suppose I slapped.\x92 \x91Slap all you like.\x92 \x91What would Martha Caldwell say?\x92 There was a gloomy sort of anger on Henry\x92s red face. He jerked her violently toward him. \x91Stop! You\x92re hurting my wrist!\x92 With which she yielded a little. He found himself about to take her in his arms. He heard her whispering--\x91For Heaven\x92s sake be careful! They\x92ll surely hear!\x92 He was most unhappy. He pushed her roughly away, and rushed to the window., He knew from the silence that she was lingering. He hated her. And himself. She said: \x91Well, you needn\x92t get mad.\x92 Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving composedly along the hall. He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!... He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about his shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to go down. Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase, drew out the _Epictetus_--it was a little book, bound in \x91ooze\x92 calf of an olive-green colour--and read these words (the book opened there):-- \x91To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable. He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud. 3 A little later--red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when the swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out--he sat, quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast of stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush swimming in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The _Discourses of Epictetus_ lay at his elbow. After this he walked--stiffly self-conscious, book under arm--over to Simpson Street, and took a chair and an _Inter Ocean_ at Schultz and Schwartz\x92s, among the line of those waiting to be shaved. This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry in a red pocket account-book:-- \x91Shave--10 c.\x92 He wavered when passing Donovan\x92s; stepped in and consumed a frosted maple shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:-- \x91Soda--10 c.\x92 In front of Berger\x92s grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked together to the corner. Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies in Henry\x92s room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that with \x91the crowd\x92 that the other local \x91men\x92 had long since given up calling at her house. But they were not engaged. On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem self-control. At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly embarrassing. She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf by the stone walk. He thrust both hands into his trousers\x92 pockets, spread his feet, and stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him that he had never been so unhappy. \x91Are you\x92--Martha began; hesitated; went on--\x91were you thinking of coming around this evening?\x92 \x91Why--it\x92s Thursday, ain\x92t it?\x92 \x91Yes,\x92 she said, \x91it\x92s Thursday.\x92 \x91Listen, Martha!\x92 Was it possible that she suspected something? But how could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, never know about Mamie!... \x91Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur V. Henderson\x92s.\x92 \x91Oh,\x92 she murmured, \x91that musicale.\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 Eagerness was creeping into his voice. \x91Anne Mayer Stelton. She\x92s been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked specially to have me cover it.\x92 \x91Why don\x92t you go?\x92 \x91Well--you see how it is. Of course, I\x92d hate----\x92 \x91You\x92d better go.\x92 Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, and left him standing there. He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. \x91I ought to do something for her,\x92 he thought. \x91Buy some flowers--or a box of Devoe\x92s.\x92 This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And he hadn\x92t asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention. It didn\x92t seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he paused, and glanced down the avenue. A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and a suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to--Martha. And Martha was listening. Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_, where he worked. Here he laid down the _Discourses of Epictetus_ and asked Humphrey Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the galley proofs of the week\x92s \x91Personal Mention.\x92 He found this item:-- Mr James B. Merchant, Jr., of Greggs, Merchant & Co., was a guest of Mr and Mrs Ames at the Country Club on Saturday evening. Mr Merchant has leased for the summer the apartment of M. B. Wills, on Lower Filbert Avenue. That was the man! James B. Merchant was a bachelor, rich, a famous cotillion leader on the South Side, Chicago, an only son of the original James B. Merchant. And Martha had gone to the Country Club Saturday with the Ameses. This curious tension between himself and Martha had then first bordered on the acute. Mr Ames disapproved of Henry; he felt that Martha shouldn\x92t have gone. And now, of course, her lack of consideration for himself was leading her into new complications. He sat moodily fingering the papers on the littered, ink-stained table that served him for a desk. He was disturbed, uncomfortable, but couldn\x92t settle on what seemed a proper mental attitude. He was jealous; but he mustn\x92t let his jealousy carry him to the point of taking a definite stand with Martha, because--well... Life seemed very difficult. 4 The _Voice_ office occupied what had once been a shop, opposite the hotel. The show window of plate glass now displayed the splintery rear panels of old Mr Boice\x92s rolltop desk, that was heaped, on top, with back numbers of the _Voice_, the _Inter Ocean_ and the _Congressional Record_, and a pile of inky zinc etchings mounted on wood blocks. Within, back of a railing, were Humphrey Weaver\x92s desk and Henry Calverly\x92s table. Humphrey was tall, rather thin and angular, with a long face, long nose, long chin, swarthy complexion, and quick, quizzical brown eyes with innumerable fine wrinkles about them. When he smiled, his whole face seemed to wrinkle back, displaying many large teeth in a cavernous mouth. Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young man, with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for the old corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a secret passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in a barn back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story into living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple furniture and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were lathes, a workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen or more of heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, and several odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the ends of twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very large ones. And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was an alumnus of the local university, but had made few friends, and had never been known in the town. Henry hadn\x92t heard of him before the previous year, when he had taken the desk in the _Voice_ office. \x91Say, Hen,\x92--Henry looked up from his copy paper--; \x91Mrs Henderson looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of guests for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You can do it, can\x92t you?\x92 Henry nodded listlessly. \x91It seems there\x92s to be a contralto, too--somebody that\x92s visiting her. She--Sister Henderson--appears to take you rather seriously, my boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One Corinne Doag. We,\x92--Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his sentence--\x91we talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you\x92d come.\x92 At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley\x92s. \x91Wha\x92d you and Mrs Henderson say about me?\x92 asked Henry, over the pie. \x91She says,\x92 remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes, \x91that you have temperament. She thinks it\x92s a shame.\x92 \x91What\x92s a shame?\x92 muttered Henry. \x91Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy I ever knew. Don\x92t drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn\x92t add that you enter every cent you spend in that little red book; but I\x92ve seen you doing it and been impressed. But I mentioned that you\x92re the most conscientious reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you\x92re nothing of the sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to appear complex and interesting.\x92 Still muttering, Henry said, \x91Nothing so very interesting about me.\x92 \x91It seems that you put on an opera here--directed it, or sang it, or something. Before my time.\x92 \x91That was _Iolanthe_,\x92 said Henry, with a momentarily complacent memory. \x91And you sang--all over the place, apparently. Why don\x92t you sing now?\x92 \x91It\x92s too,\x92--Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word--\x91too physical.\x92 Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily: \x91Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?\x92 Humphrey considered this without a smile. \x91I don\x92t see exactly how, Hen.\x92 \x91I mean if he\x92s been heedless and reckless--oh, you know, girls, debts, everything. Just crazy, sorta.\x92 \x91Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?\x92 The wrinkled smile was reassuring. \x91That depends on what you--I wasn\x92t exactly sporty, but--oh, you don\x92t know the trouble I\x92ve had, Humphrey. Then my mother died, and I hadn\x92t been half-decent to her, and I was left alone, and my uncle had to pay my debts out of the principal--it was hundreds of dollars----\x92 His voice died out. There was an element of pathos in the picture before him that Humphrey recognised with some sympathy--the gloomy lad of twenty, with that absurd little moustache that he couldn\x92t let alone. After all, he _had_ been rather put to it. It began to appear that he had suppressed himself without mercy. There would doubtless be reactions. Perhaps explosions. Henry went on:-- \x91I don\x92t know what\x92s happened to me. I don\x92t feel right about things. I\x92--he hesitated, glanced up, then down, and his ears reddened--\x91I\x92ve been going with Martha Caldwell, you know. For a long time.\x92 Humphrey nodded. \x91Mondays and Thursdays I go over there, and other times. I don\x92t seem to want to go any more. But I get mixed up about it. I--I don\x92t want them to say I\x92m fickle. They used to say it.\x92 \x91You\x92ve evidently got gifts,\x92 observed Humphrey, as if thinking aloud. \x91You\x92ve got some fire in you. The trouble with you now, of course, is that you\x92re stale.\x92 Humphrey deliberately considered the situation, then remarked: \x91You asked me if a man can change his nature. I begin to see now. You\x92ve been trying to do that to yourself, for quite a while.\x92 Henry nodded. \x91Well, I suppose you\x92ll find that you can\x92t do it. Not quite that. The fire that\x92s in you isn\x92t going to stop burning just because you tell it to.\x92 \x91But what\x92s a fellow to do?\x92 \x91I don\x92t know. Just stick along, I suppose, gradually build up experience until you find work you can let yourself go in. Some way, of course, you\x92ve got to let yourself go, sooner or later.\x92 Henry, his eyes nervously alert now, his slim young body tense, was drawing jerkily with his fork on the coarse table-cloth. \x91Yes,\x92 he broke out, with the huskiness in his voice that came when his emotions pressed--\x91yes, but what if you can\x92t let yourself go without letting everything go? What if the fire bums you!\x92 Humphrey found it difficult to frame a reply. He got no further, this as they were leaving the restaurant, than to say, \x91Of course, one man can\x92t advise another.\x92 5 As they were turning into the _Voice_ office, Henry caught sight of Mamie Wilcox, in a cheap pink dress and flapping pink-and-white hat, loitering by the hotel. He fell back behind Humphrey. Mamie beckoned with her head. He nodded, and entered the office; and she moved slowly on around the corner of the avenue. He mumbled a rather unnecessary excuse to Humphrey, and slipped out, catching up with her on the avenue. She was unpleasantly attractive. She excited him. \x91What is it?\x92 he asked, walking with her. \x91Did you want to speak to me?\x92 \x91Stuck up, aren\x92t we!\x92 \x91Well?\x92 She pouted. \x91Take a little walk with me. I do want to talk with you.\x92 \x91Haven\x92t time. Got to get right back to the office.\x92 \x91Well--listen, meet me to-night. I can get out by eight. It\x92s pretty important. Maybe serious.\x92 \x91Is it---did anybody----\x92 She nodded. \x91Mrs MacPherson. She was right in her door when I came out of your room.\x92 \x91Did she say anything?\x92 \x91She looked a lot.\x92 \x91Well, say--I\x92ll see you for a few minutes to-night. Say about eight.\x92 This was best. It would be dark, or near it. He simply mustn\x92t be seen strolling with Mamie Wilcox along Filbert Avenue in broad daylight. \x91What do you say to Douglass Street and the Lake Shore Drive?\x92 \x91All right. Tell you what--bring a tandem along and take me for a ride.\x92 \x91Oh, I can\x92t.\x92 But his will was weak. \x91Got to report a concert. I don\x92t know, though. I s\x92pose I could get around at half-past nine\x92 or ten and hear the last numbers.\x92 He had often done this. Besides, he could probably manage it earlier. He knew he could rent a tandem at Murphy\x92s cigar store down by the tracks. A quite wild, wholly fascinating stir of adventure was warming his breast and bringing that huskiness into his voice. He was letting go. He felt daring and a little mad. He hadn\x92t realised, before to-day, that Mamie had such a lure about her. Before returning to the office he got his bank-book and brazenly drew from the bank, savings department, his entire account, amounting to ten dollars forty-six cents. He also bespoke the tandem. These were the great days of bicycling. The first highwheeled, rattling horseless carriage was not to appear in the streets of Sunbury for a year or two yet. Bicycle clubs flourished. Memorial Day each year (they called it Decoration Day) was a mad rush of excursion and road races. Every Sunday witnessed a haggard-eyed humpbacked horde of \x91Scorchers\x92 in knickerbockers or woollen tights. Many of the young men one met on train and street wore medals with a suspended chain of gold bars, one for each \x91century run.\x92 And these were the first great days of the bloomer girl. She was legion. Sometimes her bloomers were bloomers, sometimes they were knickerbockers, sometimes little more than the tights of the racing breed. She was dusty, sweaty, loud. She was never the sort of girl you knew; but always appeared from the swarming, dingy back districts of the city. Sometimes she rode a single wheel, sometimes tandem with some male of the humpbacked breed and of the heavily muscled legs and the grotesquely curved handle bars. The bloomer girl was looked at askance by the well-bred folk of the shaded suburbs. Ministers thumped pulpits and harangued half-empty pews regarding this final moral, racial disaster while she rode dustily by the very doors. Henry, as he pedalled the long machine through back streets to the rendezvous, was glad that the twilight was falling fast. In his breast pocket were copy paper and pencils, in an outer pocket his little olive-green book. His white trousers were caught about the ankles with steel dips. Mamie kept him waiting. He hid both himself and the wheel in the shadows of the tall lilac bushes in the little village park. She came at length, said \x91Hello!\x92 and with a little deft unhooking, coolly stepped out of her skirt, rolled up that garment, thrust it under a bush, and stood before him in the sort of wheeling costume rarely seen in Sunbury save on Saturdays and Sundays when the Chicago crowds were pouring through. Henry stood motionless, silent, in the dusk. \x91Well,\x92 said she, smartly, \x91are we riding?\x92 Without a word he wheeled out the bicycle and they rolled away. She was very close, there before him. She bent over the handle bars like an old-timer, and pedalled with something more than the abandon of a boy. It was going to be hard to talk to her... If he could only blot this day out of his life. \x91She started it,\x92 he thought fiercely, staring out ahead over her rhythmically moving shoulder. \x91I never asked her to come in!\x92 \x91I didn\x92t know you rode a wheel,\x92 said he, after a time, dismally. \x91I ride Sundays with the boys from Pennyweather Point. But you needn\x92t tell that at home.\x92 \x91I\x92m not telling anything at home,\x92 muttered Henry. Then she flung back at him the one word. \x91Surprised?\x92 \x91Well--why, sorta.\x92 \x91You thought I was satisfied to do the room work and wash dishes, I suppose!\x92 \x91I don\x92t know as I thought anything.\x92 \x91What\x92s the matter, anyway? Scared at my bloomers?\x92 \x91That\x92s what you call\x92em, is it?\x92 \x91I must say you\x92re grand company.\x92 He made no reply. They pedalled past the university buildings, the athletic field, the lighthouse, up a grade between groves of oak, out along the brink of a clay bluff overlooking the steely dark lake--horizonless, still, a light or two twinkling far out. \x91Shall we go to Hoffman\x92s?\x92 she asked. \x91I don\x92t care where we go,\x92 said he. 6 _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_ was put to press every Friday evening, was printed during that night, and appeared in the first mail on Saturday mornings. Friday, therefore, was the one distractingly busy day for Humphrey Weaver. And it was natural enough that he should snatch at Henry\x92s pencilled report of the musicale at Mrs Henderson\x92s with the briefest word of greeting, and give his whole mind, blue copy-editing pencil posed in air, to reading it. But he did note that the boy looked rather haggard, as if he hadn\x92t slept much. He heard his mumbled remark that he had been over at the public library, writing the thing; and perhaps wondered mildly and momentarily why the boy should be writing at the library and not at home, and why he should speak of the fact at all. And now and again during the day he was aware of Henry, pale, dog-eyed, inclined to hang about as if confidences were trembling on his tongue. And he was carrying a little olive-green book around; drew it from his pocket every now and then and read or turned the pages with an ostentatious air of concentration, as if he wanted to be noticed. Humphrey decided to ask him what the trouble was; later, when the paper was put away. When he might have spoken, old man Boice was there, at his desk. And Humphrey never got out to meals on Fridays. Henry got all his work in on time: the \x91Real Estate Notes\x92 for the week and the last items for \x91Along Simpson Street.\x92 The report of the musicale would have brought a smile or two on another day. There was nearly a column of it. Henry had apparently been deeply moved by the singing of Anne Mayer Stelton. He dwelt on the \x91velvet suavity\x92 of her legato passages, her firmness of attack and the \x91delicate lace work of her colourature.\x92 \x91Mme. Stelton\x92s art,\x92 he wrote, \x91has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in personality and profoundly rhythmically musical in temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority, which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction seldom heard in this country. Miss Corinne Doag also added immeasurably to the pleasure of the select audience by singing a group of songs. Miss Corinne Doag has a contralto voice of fine _verve_ and _timbre_. She is a guest of Mrs Henderson, who herself accompanied delightfully. Among those present were:--\x92 Henry\x92s writing always startled you a little. Words fairly flowed through his pencil, long words, striking words. He had the word sense; this when writing. In speech he remained just about where he had been all through his teens, loose of diction, slurring and eliding and using slang as did most of the Middle-Westerners among whom he had always lived, and, like them, swallowing his tongue down his throat. Humphrey initialed the copy, tossed it into the devil\x92s basket, turned to a pile of proofs, paused as if recollecting something, picked up the copy again, glanced rapidly through it, and turned on his assistant. \x91Look here, Hen,\x92 he remarked, \x91you don\x92t tell what they sang, either of \x91em. Or who _were_ among those present.\x92 Henry was reading his little book at the moment, and fumbling at his moustache. A mournful object. He turned now, with a start, and stared, wide-eyed, at Humphrey. His lips parted, but he didn\x92t speak. A touch of colour appeared in his cheeks. Then, as abruptly, he went limp in his chair. \x91I thought she left a list here and a programme,\x92 he said, eyes now on the floor. Humphrey\x92s practised eye ran swiftly over the double row of pigeonholes before him. \x91Right you are!\x92 he exclaimed. It was a quarter past eleven that night when Humphrey scrawled his last \x91O.K.\x92; stretched out his long form in his swivel chair; yawned; said, \x91Well, _that\x92s_ done, thank God!\x92; and hummed and tapped out on his bare desk the refrain of a current song:-- \x91But you\x92d look sweet On the seat Of a bicycle built for two.\x92 He turned on Henry with a wrinkly, comfortable grin. \x91Well, my boy, it\x92s too late for Stanley\x92s but what do you say to a bite at Ericson\x92s, over by the tracks?\x92 Then he became fully aware of the woebegone look of the boy, fiddling eternally with that moustache, fingering the leaves of his little book, and added:-- \x91What on earth is the matter with you!\x92 Henry gazed long at his book, swallowed, and said weakly:-- \x91I\x92m in trouble, Humphrey.\x92 \x91Oh, come, not so bad as all--\x92 He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry\x92s face. Mr Boice, a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was coming in from the press room. They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs. There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at first. Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an ingenuous volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he could be bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He was full of odd little spiritual turnings and twistings--vague as to the clock, intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless sea of self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him with direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the Thursday morning in the boy\x92s room. \x91But I never asked her in,\x92 he hurried to explain. \x91She came in. Maybe after that it was my fault, but I didn\x92t ask her in.\x92 \x91But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn\x92t so serious. You didn\x92t make love to her.\x92 \x91I tried to.\x92 \x91Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.\x92 \x91But don\x92t you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She\x92d been snooping. Musta heard some of it. That\x92s why Mamie hung around for me yesterday noon.\x92 \x91Oh, she hung around?\x92 Henry swallowed, and nodded. \x91That\x92s why I slipped out again after lunch yesterday. I didn\x92t want to tell you.\x92 \x91Naturally. A man\x92s little flirtations----\x92 \x91But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it was up to me, somehow. I couldn\x92t get rid of her.\x92 \x91Well, of course----\x92 \x91She made me promise to see her last night----\x92 \x91But--wait a minute!--last night----\x92 \x91This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent Murphy\x92s tandem----\x92 \x91Hm! you _were_ going it!\x92 \x91And we rode up the shore a ways.\x92 \x91Then you didn\x92t hear all of the musicale?\x92 \x91No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann\x92s Garden. So we went there----\x92 \x91But good lord, that\x92s six miles---\x92 \x91Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she--but I had to be a sport, sorta.\x92 \x91Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.\x92 \x91Sure! I _had_ to. It was awful.\x92 \x91Anybody there that knew you?\x92 Henry\x92s colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of a cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the word, \x91Yes.\x92 Humphrey considered the problem. \x91Well,\x92 he finally observed, \x91after all, what\x92s the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows pick up a girl now and then. It isn\x92t going to kill anybody.\x92 \x91Yes, but\x92--Henry\x92s emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night; he swallowed--\x91but it--well, Martha was there.\x92 \x91Oh--Martha Caldwell?\x92 \x91Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant\x92s party.\x92 \x91James B., Junior?\x92 \x91Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren\x92t but three tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she----\x92 \x91After all, Hen. It\x92s disturbing and all that, but you were getting pretty tired of Martha----\x92 \x91It isn\x92t that, Hump 1 I don\x92t know that I was. I get mixed. But it\x92s the shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway, for something that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha, she\x92s--well, can\x92t you see, Hump? It\x92s just as if there\x92s no use of my trying to stay in this town any longer. They\x92ll all be down on me now. They\x92ll whisper about me. They\x92re doing it now. I feel it when I walk up Simpson Street. They\x92re going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and I\x92m not.\x92 His face sank into his hands. Humphrey considered him; said, \x91Of course you\x92re not;\x92 considered him further. Then he said, reflectively: \x91It\x92s unpleasant, of course, but I\x92ll confess I can\x92t see that what you\x92ve told me justifies the words \x93shame\x94 and \x93disgrace.\x94 They\x92re strong words, my boy. And as for leaving town... See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven\x92t told me?\x92 The bowed head inclined a little farther. \x91Hadn\x92t you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl got--well, a real hold on you?\x92 The head moved slowly sidewise. \x91We fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a pair of little muckers. No, it isn\x92t that. I hated her all the time. I told her I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this morning, up on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With towels. That\x92s why I wrote in the library.\x92 \x91But you aren\x92t telling me what the rest of it was.\x92 \x91She--oh, she drank beer, and----\x92 \x91That\x92s what most everybody does at Hoffmann\x92s. The beer\x92s good there.\x92 \x91I don\x92t know. I don\x92t like the stuff.\x92 \x91Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.\x92 \x91I\x92ll tell you. But I get so mad. It\x92s--she--well, she wore pants.\x92 Humphrey\x92s sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he queried: \x91Bloomers?\x92 \x91No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like \x91em in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said things, right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear through--past hundreds of tables--and away over in the corner--and there were the Ameses, and Martha, and----\x92 His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with the passion of a profound moral indignation. \x91Hump, she\x92s tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point. She smokes cigarettes. She--she leads a double life.\x92 And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth before him, to smile at that last remark. Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought about him the last thing that night--pictured him living a lonely, spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of Mrs Wilcox--and the first thing the next morning. The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the boy on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over all the morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked steadily and hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and chuckled. Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to clip his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a \x91string.\x92 Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule and fill out an order on the _Voice_ Company for payment at the rate of a dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an inch. Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months back, elected to work \x91on space.\x92 That the result had not been altogether happy--he was averaging something less than nine dollars a week now--does not concern us here. Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured; then proposed lunch. At Stanley\x92s, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and surveyed the dejected young man before him. \x91Hen,\x92 he remarked dryly, \x91do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton\x92s voice has a velvet suavity?\x92 Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then dropped his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid. \x91Why not?\x92 said he. \x91You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury?\x92 Henry centred all his attention on the soup. \x91You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during her study abroad?\x92 Henry\x92s ears were scarlet now. Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at his deeply unhappy friend. For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid down his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met Humphrey\x92s gaze. \x91There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your neck. A moment.\x92 Henry\x92s voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much. \x91What is it?\x92 he asked. \x91What happened?\x92 \x91Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.\x92 Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes. \x91Hump,\x92 he said, \x91I don\x92t know that I\x92m sorry. I\x92m rather glad you caught me, I think.\x92 It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving speech. \x91You had an unlucky day,\x92 he said. Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry pushed his aside. He ate nothing more. \x91Mrs Henderson was in,\x92 Humphrey added. \x91I don\x92t care what they say about her, she\x92s a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.\x92 \x91Was she mad, Hump?\x92 \x91I--well, yes, I gathered the impression that you\x92d better not try to talk to her for a while. There she was, you see--came straight down to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along. Unusual dark brown eyes--almost black. A striking girl. But you won\x92t meet her--not this trip. Though she couldn\x92t help laughing once or twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. _Verve. Timbre_. It puts you--I won\x92t say in a Bad light--but certainly in a rather absurd light.\x92 \x91Yes,\x92 said Henry, gently, meekly, \x91it does. It sorta completes the thing. I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They\x92re laughing at me. And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I\x92ve lost my friends. I\x92m sort of an outcast, I suppose. A--a pariah.\x92 There was a long silence. \x91You\x92d better eat some food,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91I can\x92t.\x92 Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. \x91It ain\x92t as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I couldn\x92t very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being seen with her. I\x92ll admit I got mixed--awfully. I don\x92t suppose I knew just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump, you don\x92t know how hard I\x92ve----\x92 \x91It\x92s the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,\x92 observed Humphrey. \x91But never mind that now. You\x92re caught, Hen. No good explaining. You\x92ve just got to live it down.\x92 \x91That\x92s what I\x92ve been doing for two years--living things down. And look where it\x92s brought me. I\x92m worse off than ever.\x92 There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous suggestion to Humphrey. \x91Mustn\x92t let the kid sink this way,\x92 he thought. Then, aloud: \x91Here\x92s a little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You\x92re stale. You\x92re taking this too hard. You need a change.\x92 \x91I don\x92t like to leave town, exactly, Hump--as if I was licked. I\x92ve changed about that.\x92 \x91You\x92re not going to leave town. You\x92re coming over to live with me. Move this afternoon.\x92 Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey, suddenly a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. \x91I\x92ll be through by four. You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things. Here\x92s my key. I\x92ll let you pay something. We\x92ll get our breakfasts.\x92 He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth touch him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. \x91Come on,\x92 he said brusquely, \x91let\x92s get out.\x92 And on the street he added, avoiding those bewildered dog eyes--\x91I\x92m going to reshuffle you and deal you out fresh.\x92 That\x92s all you need, a new deal.\x92 But to himself he added: \x91It won\x92t be easy. He is taking it hard. He\x92s unstrung. I\x92ll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up his confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It\x92ll take time, but it can be done. He\x92s good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start with.\x92 7 It was nearly five o\x92clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar. \x91Hen\x92s here now,\x92 he thought. He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room, called, \x91Hello there!\x92 and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no answer. He went on up. On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting of an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects--books, a small stand of shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs. The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where they had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found the splinter on the floor; muttered, \x91I\x92ll glue it on, and rub over the cracks.\x92 He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. \x91It didn\x92t occur to him to stow\x92em away,\x92 he mused. \x91Probably didn\x92t know where to put \x91em.\x92 He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next to his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. He carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the rug. The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of his bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and electric lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and at the head of his bed. He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard to give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known it would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming again, and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant home was his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a dusty, cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the water pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so. \x91Hen shouldn\x92t have left the door open like that,\x92 he mused. He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he sighed. \x91Well,\x92 he thought, \x91needn\x92t be a hog. It\x92s my chance to do a fairly decent turn. The boy hasn\x92t a soul. Not yet. He isn\x92t the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised. Very likely I\x92ve got to build him over from the ground up. Might try making him read history. God knows he needs background. It\x92ll take time. And patience. All I\x92ve got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of his self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That\x92s it. I\x92ve taken it on. Can\x92t quit. It seems to be my job.\x92 And he sighed again. \x91Have to get him a key of his own.\x92 There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures and garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs. \x91I put your things in there,\x92 Humphrey pointed. \x91We\x92ll move the box couch in for you to-night.\x92 \x91That\x92ll be fine,\x92 said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice. Humphrey\x92s eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; and he compressed his lips and shook his head. Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for the first lesson. \x91There\x92s simply no life in the boy,\x92 thought Humphrey. He cleared his throat, and said aloud:-- \x91Tell you what, Hen. We\x92ll celebrate a little, this first evening. I\x92ve got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I make excellent drip coffee. If you\x92ll go over to Berger\x92s and get a pound or so of cheese for the rabbit, I\x92ll look the situation over and figure out a meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.\x92 Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, \x91All right,\x92 hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally wandered off down the stairs and out. He returned at twenty minutes past midnight. Humphrey was abed, reading Smith\x92 on Torsion. He put down the book and waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since six o\x92clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; at present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly suppressed wrath. Henry came into the room--a little flushed, bright of eye, the sensitive corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily upward. He even actually chuckled. \x91Well, where--on--earth.... Henry waved a light hand. \x91Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess I owe you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. Everything happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you\x92re sorta swept off your feet like that----\x92 \x91Like what!\x92 \x91Oh--well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, it doesn\x92t seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was weeks ago that I moved my things over.\x92 His eyes roved about the room; lingered on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface wiring with sudden interest. \x91Go on!\x92 From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on the self-absorbed youth. \x91Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger\x92s and got the cheese; and just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.\x92 \x91Who!\x92 \x91Corinne Doag. You know. She\x92s visiting there. Well, sir, I could have died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back into the store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs Henderson. She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a scolding. Shook her finger at me right, there in front of Berger\x92s. That fussed me worse. Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed Corinne Doag too--she was standing right there--and she got a little red. Wasn\x92t it a scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You know, threw us together. Then she--Mrs Henderson--said I didn\x92t deserve to meet a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn\x92t the kind to harbour angry feelings she\x92d introduce us. And--and--I walked along home with\x92em.\x92 He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to ceiling, across the end wall. \x91Say, Hump, you don\x92t mean to say you really read all those!\x92 \x91You walked home with them. Go on.\x92 \x91Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks came in, and we sang and things, and then we--oh, yes, how much was the cheese?\x92 \x91How in thunder do I know?\x92 \x91Well--there was a pound of it--Mrs Henderson made a rabbit. The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at last to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that radiated from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying the bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of speech, only to lower his eyes again. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, \x91She\x92s a wonderful girl. At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to take a walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs H., but I told her we\x92d worship in God\x92s great outdoor temple.\x92 He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy animal, his arms above his head. \x91Well,\x92 said he, \x91it\x92s late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to sleep.\x92 He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the wall. \x91Look here, Hump, I don\x92t want you to think I don\x92t appreciate your taking me in like this. It\x92s dam nice of you. Don\x92t know what I\x92d have done if it wasn\x92t for you. Well, good-night.\x92 He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of his earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and leaned over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to Humphrey that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present happiness. \x91Do you know what was the matter with me?\x92 he broke out. \x91It was just what you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be rational, normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now these last two years I\x92ve been going with all my might to the other. Of course it wouldn\x92t work... Do you know who\x92s helped me a whole lot? You\x92d never guess.\x92 Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a little book bound in olive-green \x91ooze\x92 leather. \x91It\x92s this old fellow. Epictetus. Listen to what he says--\x93To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable.\x94 That was the trouble with me. I just wasn\x92t a rational animal. I _wasn\x92t_... Well, I\x92ve got to say good-night.\x92 This time he went. Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment later that he was snoring--softly, slowly, comfortably, like a rational animal. The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey\x92s bureau crept up to twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating boom from the big clock up at the university. Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and slippers went downstairs and switched off the door light he found burning there. The stair light could be turned off upstairs. Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on the calm village night. \x91Of all the----\x92 he muttered inconclusively. \x91Why it\x92s--he\x92s a---- Good God! It\x92s the limit! It\x92s--it\x92s intolerable.\x92 The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began, very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. \x91Epictetus,\x92 he remarked, \x91was right.\x92 II--IN SAND-FLY TIME 1 |It was half-past nine of a Sabbath morning at the beginning of June. The beneficent sunshine streamed down on the dark-like streets, on the shingled roofs of the many decorous but comfortable homes, on the wide lawns, on the hundreds of washed and brushed little boys and starched little girls that were marching meekly to the various Sunday schools, Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist. Above the new cement sidewalk on Simpson Street--where all the stores were closed except two drug stores and Swanson\x92s flower shop--the sunshine quivered and wavered, bringing oppressive promise of the first really warm day of the young summer. Slow-swinging church bells sent out widening, reverberating circles of mellow tone through the still air. The sun shone too on the old barn back of the Parmenter place. The barn presented an odd appearance; the red paint of an earlier decade in the nineteenth century here faded to brown, there flaked off altogether, but the upstairs part, once the haymow, embellished with neat double windows. Below, giving on the alley, was a white-painted door with a single step and an ornamental boot scraper. Within, in Humphrey\x92s room, the bed was neatly made, clothes hung in a corner, shoes and slippers stood in a row. In Henry\x92s room the couch bed was a rumpled heap, a suit-case lay on the floor half-unpacked, a trunk was in the same condition, clothes, shoes, neckties, photographs were scattered about on table, chairs and floor, a box of books by the bed, the guitar in its old green woollen bag leaning against the door. In a corner of the living-room the doors of an ingeniously contrived cupboard stood open, disclosing a sink, shelves of dishes, and a small ice-box. Humphrey, in shirt, trousers and slippers, stood washing the breakfast things. He was smoking his cob pipe. His long, wrinkly, usually quizzical face, could Henry have seen it, was deathly sober. Henry, however, could see only the lean back. And he looked at that only momentarily. He was busy smoothing the fringe along his upper lip and twisting it up at the ends. Too, he leaned slightly on his bamboo walking stick, staring down at it, watching it bend. Despite his white ducks and shoes, serge coat, creamy white felt hat on the back of his shapely head, despite the rather noticeable nose glasses with the black silk cord hanging from them to his lapel, he presented a forlorn picture. He wished Humphrey would say something. That long back was hostile. Henry was helpless before hostility, as before logic. Already they weren\x92t getting on. Little things like washing dishes and making beds and--dusting! Humphrey was proving an old fuss-budget. And Henry couldn\x92t think what to do about it. He could never:--never in the world--do those fussy things, use his hands. He couldn\x92t even flounder through the little mental processes that lead up to doing things with your hands. He wasn\x92t that sort of person. Humphrey was. \x91Oh, thunder--Hump!\x92 Thus Henry, weakly. \x91Let the old dishes slide a little while. I\x92ll be back. It ain\x92t my fault that I\x92ve got a date now.\x92 Humphrey set down a cup rather hard, rolled the dish-towel into a ball and threw it, with heat, after the cup, then strode to the window, nursing his pipe and staring out at the gooseberry and currant bushes in the back yard of the First Presbyterian parsonage across the alley. Humphrey liked order. It was the breath of his life. Combined with solitude it spelled peace to his bachelor soul. But here it was only the second day and the place was a pigsty. What would it be in a week! He was aware that Henry moved over, all hesitation, and with words, to shut the door of that hopelessly littered bedroom. The boy appeared to have no intention of picking up his things; he wasn\x92t even unpacking! Leaving his clothes that way 1... The words he was so confusedly uttering were the absurdest excuses: \x91Just shut the door--fix it all up when I get back--an hour or so... It was in a wave of unaccustomed sentimentalism that Humphrey had gathered him in. Humphrey had few visitors. You couldn\x92t work with aimless youths hanging around. He knew all about that. Humphrey\x92s evenings were precious. His time was figured out, Monday morning to Saturday night, to the minute. And the Sundays were always an orgy of work. But this youth, to whom he had opened his quarters and his slightly acid heart, was the most aimless being he had ever known. An utter surprise; a shock. Yet here he was, all over the place. Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back into that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. If he could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he could stand him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid he might say something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of course.... No more peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a pipe and reading light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! No more holding to a delicately fresh line of thought--balancing along like a wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, all apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going--no doubt whatever as to that. \x91I\x92m late now,\x92 he was saying.\x92What else can I do, Hump? I promised. She\x92ll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn\x92t be in such a thundering hurry about those darn dishes... I can\x92t live like a machine. I just can\x92t!\x92 \x91You could have cleaned up your room while you\x92ve been standing there,\x92 said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice. \x91No, I couldn\x92t! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I\x92m not like you. You don\x92t understand!\x92 Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, a cold light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower part of his face. \x91I\x92m not asking much of you,\x92 he said. \x91Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don\x92t appreciate--\x92 \x91I\x92d be glad to help you. But you\x92ve got to do a _little_ on your own account. For God\x92s sake show some spine!\x92 Sand-fly! Damn it, this is more than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!\x92 He stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his pipe into his mouth. Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at that absurd moustache. And sighing--he heard that. He bit hard on his pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few moments; tripping over Henry\x92s things; regretting his perhaps too harsh words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course. Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border with his silly little stick. These words were audible:-- \x91I don\x92t see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, if you don\x92t want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I guess I ain\x92t much good....\x92 The voice trailed huskily off into silence. After all, there didn\x92t seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn\x92t worked at all. To send him out into the world would be like condemning him. Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not yet actually determined to go. Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big church. Gloom in his eyes, striking in a savage aimlessness with his cane at the grass, he passed the edifice. Walking thus, he felt a presence and lifted his eyes. 2 Approaching was a pleasant-looking young woman of twenty, of a good figure, a few girlish freckles across the bridge of her nose, abundant hair tucked in under her Sunday hat. It was Martha Caldwell. She had a class in the Sunday-school. Martha saw him. No doubt about that. For the moment, in Henry\x92s abasement of spirit, he half forgot that she had cut him dead, publicly, on Simpson Street on the Saturday. Or if it was not a forgetting it was a vagueness. Henry was full to brimming of himself. Not in years had he craved sympathy as he craved it to-day. The word \x91craved,\x92 though, isn\x92t strong enough. It was an utter need. An outcast, perhaps literally homeless; for how could he go back to Humphrey\x92s after what had occurred! He must pack his things, of course. He raised his hand--slowly, a thought stiffly--toward his hat. Martha moved swiftly by, staring past him, fixedly, her lips compressed, her colour rising. Henry\x92s hand hung suspended a moment, then sank to his side. Henry himself was capable of any sort of heedlessness, but never of unkindness or of cutting a friend. The colour surged hotly over his face and reddened his ears. There was a chance--a pretty good chance, it seemed, as he recalled the pleasant Saturday evening over a rabbit--that he might find sympathy at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson\x92s. That was one place, where, within twelve hours, Henry Calverley, 3rd, had had some standing. They had seemed to like him. Mrs Henderson had unquestionably played up to him. And her guest was a peach! At a feverish pace, almost running, he went there. 3 Corinne Doag was a big girl with blue-black hair and a profile like the Goddess of Liberty on the silver quarter of the period. Her full face rather belied the profile; it was an easy, good-natured face, though with a hint of preoccupation about the dark eyes. Her smile was almost a grin. She had the great gift of health. She radiated it. You couldn\x92t ignore her you felt her. Though not a day older than Henry, Corinne was a singer of promise. At Mrs Henderson\x92s musicale, she had managed groups of Schumann, Schubert, Franz and Wolff, an Italian aria or two and some quaint French folk songs with ample evidence of sound training and coaching. Her voice had faults. It was still a little too big for her. It was a contralto without a hollow note in it, firm and strong, with a good upper range. There was in it more than a hint of power. It moved you, even in her cruder moments. Her speaking voice--slow, lazy, strongly sensuous--gave Henry thrills. She and Henry strolled up the lake, along the bluff through and beyond the oak-clad campus, away up past the lighthouse. She seemed not to mind the increasing heat. She had the careless vitality of a young mountain lion, and the grace. Henry himself minded no external thing. Corinne Doag was, at the moment, the one person in the world who could help him in his hour of deep trouble. It was not clear how she could help him, but somehow she could. He was blindly sure of it. If he could just impress himself on her, make her forget other men, other interests! He had started well, the night before. Things had gone fine. He was leading her to a secluded breakwater, between the lighthouse and Pennyweather Point, where, under the clay bluff, the shell of an old boat-house gave you a back as you sat on a gray timber and shielded you at once from morning sun and from the gaze of casual strollers up the beach. Henry knew the place well, had guided various girls there. Martha had often spoken of it as \x91our\x92 breakwater. But no twinge of memory disturbed him now. His nervous intentness on this immediate, rather desperate task of conquering Corinne\x92s sympathy fully occupied his turbulent thoughts. When they arrived at the spot he was stilted in manner, though atremble within. He ostentatiously took off his coat, spread it for her, overpowering her protests. It had been thought by a number of girls and by a few of his elders that Henry had charm. He was aware of quality they called charm he could usually turn on and off like water at a faucet. Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was breathlessly unequal to it. Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like to hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while they idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking gulls above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, glaring down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all. \x91The shade does feel good,\x92 said she. Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn\x92t even speak. He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing male. \x91I like to skip stones,\x92 he managed to say, with husky self-consciousness. He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, until his face shone with sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt between his shoulders. To her, \x91Better let me hold your glasses,\x92 he responded with an irritable shake of the head. But such physical violence couldn\x92t go on indefinitely. Not in this heat. He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why he couldn\x92t grasp his opportunity. He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment would have thrilled him. She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, and did a phrase over, as if she were practising. He stole a glance. She wasn\x92t even looking at him. She had sunk back on an elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be observing the gulls, rather absently. Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her. \x91I skipped that last one seven times,\x92 said he. She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on. \x91She doesn\x92t know I\x92m here,\x92 he mused, with bitterness. \x91I don\x92t count. Nobody wants me.\x92 And added, \x91She\x92s selfish.\x92 Suddenly he broke out, tragically: \x91You don\x92t know what I\x92ve been through. I wouldn\x92t tell you.\x92 The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she asked, after a pause, \x91Why not?\x92 \x91You\x92d be like the others. You\x92d despise me.\x92 \x91I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn\x92t. You ought to hear her talk about you.\x92 \x91She\x92ll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone with my way to make. Wha\x92d she say about me?\x92 \x91That you\x92re a genius. She can\x92t make out why you\x92ve been burying yourself, working for a little country paper.\x92 Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody thought about anybody. Still--it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body. \x91So she says I\x92m a genius, eh! Well, maybe it\x92s true. Maybe I am. I\x92m something. Or there\x92s something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on fire with it. I\x92ve done a few things. I put on _Iolanthe_ here. When I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it--drilled \x91em----\x92 \x91I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.\x92 \x91I\x92ll do something else one of these days.\x92 \x91I\x92m sure you will,\x92 she murmured politely. It was going none too well. She wasn\x92t really interested. He hadn\x92t touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better. \x91That\x92s an awfully pretty brooch,\x92 he ventured. She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold. \x91It was a present,\x92 she said. \x91From one of the nicest men I ever knew.\x92 This chilled Henry\x92s heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist. It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt, just to think of it. And presents--things like that, gold in it--the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his thoughts. \x91That\x92s it,\x92 these ran now. \x91Presents! Money! That\x92s what girls want. Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on \x91em. That\x92s what they\x92re after!\x92 The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite too much for him. When he came gloomily over, she remarked:-- \x91We must be starting back.\x92 He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression throw his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach. \x91Oh, come on, don\x92t go yet,\x92 he begged. \x91Why, we\x92ve only just got here.\x92 \x91It\x92s a long walk. And it\x92s hot. We\x92ll never get back for dinner if we don\x92t start. I mustn\x92t keep Mildred waiting.\x92 He thought, \x91A lot she\x92d care if she wanted to be with me!\x92 He said, \x91What you doing to-night?\x92 \x91Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.\x92 \x91Oh!\x92 It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait that she finally said:-- \x91If you want to walk at that pace I\x92m afraid you\x92ll have to walk alone.\x92 So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him no opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang phrase had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It was defeat. The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well, she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for _Iolanthe._ She ought to know. She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He accepted instantly. 4 Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands. Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. She had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. The Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no children. They had no servant at this time--but she possessed the gift of getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort. After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few moments, then called them to the dining-room. \x91It\x92s really a cold lunch,\x92 she said, as they gathered at the table--\x91chicken and salad and things. But there\x92s plenty for you, Henry. Do have some iced tea. I know they starve you at that old boarding-house. We\x92ve all had our little term at Mrs Wilcox\x92s.\x92 \x91I--I\x92m not living there any more. I\x92ve moved.\x92 \x91Not to Mrs Black\x92s?\x92 \x91No... you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the _Voice_ office and he asked me to come and live with him.\x92 \x91With him? And where does he live?\x92 \x91Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.\x92 \x91But there\x92s nothing back of the Parmenter place!\x92 \x91Yes--you see, the barn----\x92 \x91Not that old red----\x92 \x91Yes. You\x92d be surprised! Humphrey\x92s put in hardwood and electricity and things. He\x92s really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the water pipes. You ought to see his books--and his shop downstairs. He\x92s an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don\x92t you think for a minute that he\x92s just a country editor. That\x92s just while he\x92s feeling his way. Oh, Hump\x92s a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too; because he\x92s busy and I know he\x92d rather live alone. You see, he\x92s quiet and orderly about things, and I--well, I\x92m different.\x92 \x91Offhand,\x92 mused Mrs Henderson, \x91I shouldn\x92t suspect Humphrey Weaver of temperament. But tell me--how on earth do you live? Who cooks and cleans up?\x92 \x91Well, Hump gets breakfast and--and we\x92ll probably take turns cleaning up.\x92 \x91You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,\x92 the little hostess breezed on. \x91You\x92ve met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks to you.\x92 She added, as if musing aloud, \x91He _has_ nice eyes.\x92 Then, to Henry: \x91But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives undiscovered, right under our noses, in this bourgeois town.\x92 Henry was rather vague about the meaning of \x91bourgeois,\x92 but he nodded gravely. \x91You must bring him down here, Henry. I can\x92t imagine what I\x92ve been thinking of to overlook him. Tell you what, we\x92ll have a little rabbit to-morrow night. We four. We\x92ll devote an evening to drawing Mr Humphrey Weaver out of his shell.\x92 Her quick eyes caught a doubtful look in Corinne\x92s eyes. \x91Oh,\x92 she said, \x91we did speak of letting Will and Fred take us in town, didn\x92t we?\x92 Corinne nodded. It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours. Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech he did make was clumsy. \x91I don\x92t know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, or work in his shop.\x92 Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, thoughtfully, on Henry\x92s ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept into her eyes. \x91Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?\x92 \x91Well\x92--Henry\x92s voice faltered--\x91you see, I haven\x92t been--I just moved over there yesterday afternoon.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson\x92s eyes. She chuckled abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an interruption. \x91I\x92d like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought to be some woman that could take care of you.\x92 She turned again on Henry. \x91Be sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a picnic supper. Or no--let me think----\x92 Henry\x92s eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to her more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably on his long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His nervous concern of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug inner well-being. Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of it--vanilla, with hot chocolate sauce--and a huge slice of chocolate layer cake. He blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let heaping spoonfuls slip down his throat and followed them with healthy bites of the cake. What a jolly little woman she was. No fuss. Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side. She had sympathy. Even if she hadn\x92t yet heard--when she did hear--it wouldn\x92t matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it. Corinne\x92s hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part of her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even to the \x91waist\x92 she wore--a simple garment, with an open throat and a wide collar that suggested the sea. Mrs Henderson was talking about something or other, in her brisk way. Henry only partly heard. He was day-dreaming, weaving an imaginative web of irridescent fancy about the healthy, rather matter-of-fact girl before him. And eating rapidly his second large helping of ice-cream, and his second piece of cake. Little resentments were still popping up among his thoughts, taunting him. But tentative little hopes were struggling with these now. A sense of power, even, was stirring to life in his breast. This brought new thrills. It was a long, long time since he had felt as he was now beginning to feel. Life had dealt pretty harshly with him these two years. But he wasn\x92t beaten yet. Not even if nice men did give cameo brooches mounted on beaded gold. He felt in his pocket. Nearly all of the week\x92s pay was there--about eight dollars. It wasn\x92t much. It wouldn\x92t buy gold brooches. Space-reporting on a country weekly at a dollar and a quarter a column, as a means of livelihood, was pretty hard sledding. He would have to scheme out something. There would be seventeen dollars more on the fifteenth from his Uncle Arthur, executor of his mother\x92s estate and guardian to Henry, but that had been mentally pledged to the purchase of necessary summer underwear and things. Still, he might manage somehow. You had to do a lot for girls, of course. They expected it. Expensive business. He indulged himself a moment, shading his eyes with one hand and eating steadily on, in a momentary wave of bitterness against well-to-do young men who could lavish money on girls. Corinne was speaking now, and he was answering. He even laughed at something she said. But the train of his thoughts rumbled steadily on. After the coffee they all carried out the dishes and washed them. Henry amused them by wearing a full-length kitchen apron. Corinne tied the strings around his waist. He found an excuse to reach back, and for an instant his hands covered hers. She laughed a little. He danced about the kitchen and sang comic songs as he wiped dishes and took them to the china closet in the butler\x92s pantry. This chore finished, they went to the living-room. Mrs Henderson said: \x91Oh, Corinne, you must hear Henry sing \x93When Britain Really Ruled\x94 from _Iolanthe_.\x92 She found the score and played for him. He sang lustily, all three verses. \x91Too much dinner,\x92 he remarked, beaming with pleasure, at the close. \x91Voice is rotten.\x92 \x91It\x92s a good organ,\x92 said Corinne. \x91You ought to work at it.\x92 \x91Perfect shame he won\x92t study,\x92 said Mrs Henderson. Henry found _The Geisha_ on the piano. \x91Come on, Corinne,\x92 he cried. \x91Do the \x93Jewel of Asia.\x94 Mrs Henderson\x92ll transpose it.\x92 Corinne leaned carelessly against the piano and sang the pleasant little melody with an ease and a steady flow of tone that brought a shine to Henry\x92s eyes. He had to hide it, dropping on the big couch and resting his head on his hand. He could look nowhere but at her. He ordered her to sing \x91The Amorous Goldfish.\x92 She fell into the spirit of it, and moved away from the piano, looking provocatively at Henry, gesturing, making an audience of him. She even danced a few steps at the end. Henry sprang up. The power was upon him. Obstacles, difficulties, the little scene with Humphrey, while not forgotten, were swept aside. He was irresistible. \x91Tell you what,\x92 he said gaily, with supreme ease--\x91w\x92e\x92ll send those Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and--oh, yes w-e will!--and then we\x92ll have a party at the rooms. You\x92ll be chaperon, Mrs Henderson and Hump\x92ll cook things in the chafing dish, and----\x92 \x91What a perfectly lovely idea!\x92 said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly calm voice. \x91I\x92ll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad... Henry watched Corinne. For an instant--she was rummaging through the music--her eyes met his. \x91It\x92ll be fun,\x92 she said. Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into ice-water; then a glow. He was a daring soul. They didn\x92t understand him in Sunbury. He had temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he\x92d wasted two years trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now. He decided to tear it up. He wouldn\x92t be a coward another day. That plodding self-discipline hadn\x92t got him anywhere. Now really, had it? Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn\x92t do for the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs Arthur V. Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to find some tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark... As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: \x91You come for us, Henry. Say about eight.\x92 Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He mentally shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant Corinne, then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs Henderson who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what she was about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all these years, he hadn\x92t realised she was so nice! He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled _their_ hash. 5 To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal reaction. Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking the news to Humphrey, he couldn\x92t very well go back to the rooms. The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to think it over. That was the idea--think it over. Humphrey would be eating his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley\x92s little restaurant on Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley\x92s. There was another little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had been known to go there. And of course it was impossible to return for a transient meal to Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would be off and Mamie Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn\x92t want Mamie back in his life. Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to wonder, with a paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable contingencies, if he _could_ help it... So instead of eating supper he sat on a breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow faded from lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own. Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked into the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell\x92s house. He walked backhand forth for a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless by trees. He found the situation trying, as he didn\x92t know why he had come, whether he wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her. He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one white dress. Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over and mounted the familiar front steps. He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with the glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. Finally, after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for Monday evening, the cotillion leader left. Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, at the maples. Henry struggled for speech. \x91Martha, look here,\x92 came from him, in a tired voice, \x91you\x92ve cut me dead. Twice. Now it seems to me----\x92 \x91I don\x92t want to talk about that,\x92 said Martha. \x91But it isn\x92t fair not to----\x92 \x91Please don\x92t try to tell me that you weren\x92t at Hoffmann\x92s with that horrid girl.\x92 \x91I\x92m not trying to. But----\x92 \x91You took her there, didn\x92t you?\x92 \x91Yes, but she----\x92 \x91She didn\x92t make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going with me, too.\x92 \x91Oh, well,\x92 he muttered. Then, \x91Thunder! If you\x92re just determined not to be fair---- \x91I won\x92t let you say that to me.\x92 The snap in her voice stung him. \x91You\x92re not fair! You won\x92t even let me talk!\x92 \x91What earthly good is talk!\x92 \x91Oh, if you\x92re going to take that attitude----\x92 She rose. So did he. \x91I can\x92t and I won\x92t talk about a thing like that,\x92 she said quickly, unevenly. \x91Then I suppose I\x92d better go,\x92 said he, standing motionless. She made no reply. They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones\x92s, a porch full of young people were singing _Louisiana Lou_. Henry, out of sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the steps. \x91Well,\x92 he remarked listlessly, \x91I\x92ll say good-night, then.\x92 Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn\x92t believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling. But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow cloud at the corner. He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn\x92t escape them. They came for a week or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street they literally covered everything. You couldn\x92t see through a square inch of Donovan\x92s wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels. It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into Humphrey\x92s shop and ascended the stairs. Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack of light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight. Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly room. He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen. He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his foot. \x91Just have to get at these things,\x92 he muttered aloud. \x91Make a job of it. Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.\x92 Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and mumbling the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever possessed was lost. 6 He came almost stealthily into the office of _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_ on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He hadn\x92t so much as rinsed them in the sink. Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr Boice, the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first glimpse of his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers falling down on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave a little quick sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the self-consciousness that somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in the railing and took his chair at the inkstained pine table that served him for a desk. He felt Humphrey\x92s eyes on him, and said \x91Goodmorning!\x92 stiffly, without looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew not what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a business of writing nothing whatever. At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim Smith, the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that blonde little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who chewed tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry\x92s table, and talk further. Noon came. Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to come along with him for lunch at Stanley\x92s. He didn\x92t mind for himself. It was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, more pleasant. It was awkward. He got up; stood a moment. He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes for the Commencement \x91recital\x92 of the Music School, pencil poised, motionless, almost inert. Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, proof in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone. Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday was a slack day, and much of Henry\x92s work consisted in scouting along Simpson Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village office, new volumes at the library and other small matters. The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey\x92s desk. Henry had put it on top of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink bottle. \x91I\x92ve had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night for a little party. I\x92ll bring them about eight.\x92 Pinned to the paper was a five-dollar banknote. At supper-time, Humphrey, eating alone in Stanley\x92s, saw a familiar figure outside the wide front window. It was Henry, dressed in his newest white ducks, his blue coat newly pressed (while he waited, at the Swede tailor\x92s down the street), standing stiffly on the curb. Occasionally he glanced around, peering into the restaurant. The light was failing in the rear of the store. Mrs Stanley came from her desk by the door and lighted two gas-jets. Henry again glanced around. He saw Humphrey and knew that Humphrey saw him. A youth on a bicycle paused at the curb. Through the screen door Humphrey heard this conversation:-- \x91Hallo, Hen!\x92 \x91Hallo, Al!\x92 \x91Doing anything after?\x92 \x91Why--yeah. Got a date.\x92 And as the other youth rode off, Henry glanced around once more, nervously. He was carrying the bamboo stick he affected. He twirled this for a moment, and then wandered out of view. But soon he reappeared, entered the restaurant and marched straight back to Humphrey\x92s table. His sensitive lips were compressed. He said, \x91Hallo, Hump!\x92 and with only a moment\x92s hesitation took the chair opposite. Humphrey buried his nose in his coffee cup. Henry cleared his throat, twice; then, in a husky, weak voice, remarked:-- \x91Get my note?\x92 There was a painfully long silence. \x91Yes,\x92 Humphrey replied then, \x91I did.\x92 And went at the pie. Henry picked up a corner of the threadbare table-cloth and twisted it. He had been pale, but colour was coming now, richly. \x91Well,\x92 he mumbled, \x91I s\x92pose we\x92ve gotta say something about it.\x92 \x91Not necessary,\x92 Humphrey observed briskly. \x91Well, but--we\x92ll have to plan----\x92 \x91Not at all.\x92 \x91You mean--you----\x92 Henry\x92s voice broke and faltered. \x91I mean----\x92 Humphrey\x92s voice was clear, sharp. \x91Ssh! Not so loud, Hump.\x92 \x91I mean that since you\x92ve done this extraordinary thing without so much as consulting me, I will see it through. I don\x92t want you for one minute to think that I like it. God knows what it\x92s going to mean--having women running in there! My privacy was the only thing I had. You\x92ve chosen to wreck it without a by-your-leave. I\x92ll be ready at eight. And I\x92ll see that the door of your room is shut.\x92 With which he rose, handed his ticket to Mrs Stanley to be punched, and left the restaurant. Henry walked the streets, through gathering clouds of sand-flies, until it was time to call at Mrs Henderson\x92s. 7 They stood on the threshold. \x91This is the shop,\x92 Henry explained, \x91where Hump works.\x92 \x91How perfectly fascinating!\x92 exclaimed Mrs Henderson. Her quick eyes took in lathes, kites, models of gliders, tools. \x91Bring him \x91straight down here. I won\x92t stir from this room till he\x92s explained everything.\x92 \x91Hump!\x92 called Henry, with austere politeness, up the stairway: \x91Would you mind coming down?\x92 He came--tall, stooping under the low lintel, in spotless white, distant in manner, but courteous, firmly courteous. Mrs Henderson, prowling about, lifted a wheel in a frame. \x91What on earth is this thing?\x92 she asked. \x91A gyroscope.\x92 \x91What do you do with it?\x92 Humphrey wound a long twine about the handle and set the wheel spinning like a top. \x91Hold it by the handle,\x92 said he. \x91Now try to wave it around.\x92 The apparently simple machine swung itself back to the horizontal with a jerk so violent that Mrs Henderson nearly lost her footing. Humphrey, with evident hesitation, caught her elbow and steadied her. She turned her eyes up to his, laughing, all interest. \x91Sit right down in that chair and explain it to me,\x92 she cried. \x91How on earth did it do that? It\x92s uncanny.\x92 And she seated herself on a work-bench, with a light little spring. When Henry showed Corinne up the stairs, Humphrey was talking with an eager interest that had not before been evident in him. And Mrs Henderson was listening, interrupting him where his easy flow of scientific terms and mechanical axioms ran too fast for her. Henry\x92s pulse beat faster. Suddenly the pleasantly arranged old barn looked, felt different. Charm had entered it. And the exciting possibility of fellowship--a daring fellowship. He was up in the living-room now. Corinne was moving lazily, comfortably about, humming a song by the sensational new Richard Strauss who was upsetting all settled musical tradition just then, and prying into corners and shelves. She wore a light, shimmery, silky dress that gave out a faint odour of violets. It drugged Henry, that odour. He felt for the first time as if he belonged in these rooms himself. Corinne found the kitchen cupboard\x92, and exclaimed. \x91Mildred!\x92 she called down the stairs, in her rich drawling voice, \x91come right up here--the cutest thing!\x92 To which Mildred Henderson coolly replied:-- \x91Don\x92t bother me with cute things now. Play with Henry and keep quiet.\x92 And Humphrey\x92s voice droned on down there. Henry dropped on the piano stool. Corinne was certainly less indifferent. A little. He struck chords; all he knew. He hummed a phrase of the Colonel\x92s song in _Patience_. Corinne drew a chair to the end of the keyboard and settled herself comfortably. \x91Sing something,\x92 she said. \x91I love your voice.\x92 \x91It\x92s no good,\x92 said he, flushing with delight. Surely her interest was growing. He added:-- \x91I\x92d a lot rather hear you.\x92 But then, when she smilingly shook her head, promptly broke into-- \x91If you want a receipt for that popular mystery Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, Take all the remarkable people of history, Rattle them off to a popular tune.\x92 It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I think, not even excepting the Major General\x92s song in _The Pirates_. Which, by the way, Henry sang next. \x91How on earth can you remember all those words!\x92 Corinne murmured. \x91And the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.\x92 She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter. \x91I know hundreds of \x91em,\x92 he said expansively, and sang on. It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things; all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since the awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the faucet that controlled his \x91charm.\x92 And he turned it on full. He had parlour tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a superficial knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an absurd little team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who had at last come up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and pretty, clung to his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her desperate confusion over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a merry heap until Henry lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels singing \x91The man with an elephant on his hands,\x92 and H. C. Bamabee singing _The Sheriff of Nottingham_, and De Wolf Hopper doing _Casey at the Bat_. All were clever bits; the \x91Casey\x92 exceptionally so. They applauded him. Even Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the piano, watching Mrs Henderson\x92s flashing little hands, clapped a little. Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out. Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked quietly, \x91Who lives across the alley?\x92 \x91It\x92s the Presbyterian parsonage,\x92 he replied, slightly grim. It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little in the alley, for Chestnut Avenue. \x91These sand-flies are fierce,\x92 said Henry. \x91You girls better take our handkerchiefs.\x92 They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly suffocating clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the corner of Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson, pressing the handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to Humphrey\x92s arm. He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms as if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into the shadows of Chestnut Avenue. Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse of his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the p\xE6an of joy in Henry\x92s brain. They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night. \x91Let\x92s do something to-morrow night--walk or go biking or row on the lake,\x92 said Mrs Henderson. \x91You two had better come down for dinner. Any time after six.\x92 \x91How about you?\x92 Henry whispered to Corinne. \x91Do you want me to come... Will and Fred...\x92 Corinne\x92s firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it. The pressure was returned. \x91Don\x92t be silly!\x92 she breathed, close to his ear. 8 The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and Henry on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held until they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room. Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe. Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain closed door. \x91Tell me,\x92 said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, \x91where is Mister Arthur V. Henderson?\x92 \x91He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.\x92 Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe. Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out a muffled \x91Good-night,\x92 and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after him. An hour later Humphrey--a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers, pipe in mouth--tapped at that door. Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat, quickly opened it. Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case and a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine--sofa cushions, old clothes, what not. \x91What\x92s all this?\x92 Humphrey waved his pipe. \x91Well--I just thought I\x92d go in the morning.\x92 \x91Don\x92t be a dam\x92 fool.\x92 \x91But--but\x92--Henry threw out protesting hands--\x91I know I\x92m no good at all these fussy things. I\x92d just spoil your----\x92 The pipe waved again. \x91That\x92s all disposed of, Hen.\x92 A somewhat wry smile wrinkled the long face. \x91Mildred Henderson\x92s running it, apparently. There\x92s a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and clean up. And--oh yes, I\x92ve got a lot of change for you. Your share was only eight-five cents.\x92 There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them slowly about on the floor. \x91We\x92re different kinds,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91About as different as they make\x92em. But that, in itself, isn\x92t a bad thing.\x92 He thrust out his hand. Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of feeling; looked down again. Humphrey stalked back to his room. Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not every partnership a little odd? III--THE STIMULANT 1 |Miss Wombast looked up from her desk in the Sunbury Public Library and beheld Henry Calverly, 3rd. Then with a slight fluttering of her pale, blue-veined eyelids and a compression of her thin lips she looked down again and in a neat practised librarian\x92s hand finished printing out a title on the-catalogue card before her. For Henry Calverly was faintly disconcerting to her. Though it was only eleven o\x92clock, and a Tuesday, he was attired in blue serge coat, snow white trousers and (could she have seen through the desk) white stockings and shoes. His white _n\xE9glig\xE9_ shirt was decorated at the neck with a \x91four-in-hand\x92 of shimmering foulard, blue and green. In his left hand was a rolled-up creamy-white felt hat and the crook of a thin bamboo stick. With his right he fussed at the fringe on his upper lip, which was somewhat nearer the moustache stage than it had been last week. Behind his nose glasses and their pendant silk cord his face was sober; the gray-blue eyes that (Miss Wombast knew) could blaze with primal energy were gloomy, or at least tired; there was a furrow between his blond eyebrow\x92s. He had the air of a youth who wants earnestly to concentrate without knowing quite how. Miss Wombast was a distinctly \x91literary\x92 person. She read Meredith, Balzac, De Maupassant, Flaubert, Zola, and Howells. She was living her way into the developing later manner of Henry James. She talked, on occasion, with an icy enthusiasm that many honest folk found irritating, of Stevenson\x92s style and of Walter Pater. It was Miss Wombast\x92s habit to look in her books for complete identification of the living characters she met. She studied all of them, coolly, critically, at boardinghouse and library. Naturally, when a living individual refused to take his place among her gallery of book types, she was puzzled. One such was Henry Calverly. She had known something of his checkered career in high school, where he had directed the glee club, founded and edited _The Boys\x92 Journal_, written a rather bright one-act play for the junior class. Indeed the village in general had been mildly aware of Henry. He had stood out, and Miss Wombast herself had sung a modest alto in the _Iolanthe_ chorus, two years back, under Henry\x92s direction and had found him impersonally, ingenuously masterful and a subtly pleasing factor in her thought-world. He had made a success of that mob. The big men of the village gave him a dinner and a purse of gold. After all of which, his mother had died, he had run, apparently, through his gifts and his earnings, and settled down to a curiously petty reporting job, trotting up and down Simpson Street collecting useless little items for _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_. Other young fellows of twenty either went to college or started laying the foundations of a regular job in Chicago. Those that amounted to anything. You could see pretty plainly ahead of each his proper line of development. Yet here was Henry, who _had_ stood out, working half-heartedly at the sort of job you associated with the off-time of poor students, dressing altogether too conspicuously, wasting hours--daytimes, when a young fellow ought to be working--with this girl and that. For a long time it had been the Caldwell girl. Lately she had seen him with that strikingly pretty but, she felt, rather \x91physical\x92 young singer who was visiting the gifted but whispered-about Mrs Arthur V. Henderson, of Lower Chestnut Avenue. Name of Doge, or Doag, or something like that. Henry himself had been whispered about. Very recently. He had been seen at Hoffmann\x92s Garden, up the shore, with a vulgar young woman in extremely tight bloomers. Of the working girl type. Had her out on a tandem. Drinking beer. So it was, unable to forget those secretly stirring _Iolanthe_ days, that Miss Wombast had looked about among her book types for a key to Henry, but without success. He didn\x92t appear to be in De Maupassant. Nor in Balzac. In Meredith and James there was no one who said \x91Yeah\x92 and \x91Gotta\x92 and spoke with the crude if honest throat \x91r\x92 of the Middle West and went with nice girls and vulgar girls and carried that silly cane and wore the sillier moustache; who had, or had had, gifts of creation and command, yet now, month in, month out, hung about Donovan\x92s soda fountain; who never smoked and, apart from the Hoffmann\x92s Garden incident, wasn\x92t known to drink; and who, when you faced him, despite the massed evidence, gave out an impression of earnest endeavour. Even of moral purpose. Had she known him better Miss Wombast would have found herself the more puzzled. For Miss Wombast, despite her rather complicated reading, still clung in some measure to the moralistic teachings of her youth, believing that people either had what she thought of as character or else didn\x92t have it, that people were either industrious or lazy, bright or stupid, vulgar or nice. Therefore the fact that Henry, while still wrecking his stomach with fountain drinks and (a recently acquired habit) with lemon meringue pie between meals, had not touched candy for two years--not a chocolate cream, not even a gum drop!--and this by sheer force of character, would have been confusing. And to read his thoughts, as he stood there before her desk, would have carried her confusion on into bewilderment. Mostly these thoughts had to do with money, and bordered on the desperate. Tentative little schemes for getting money--even a few dollars--were forming and dissolving rapidly in his mind. He was concerned because his sudden little flirtation with Corinne Doag, after a flashing start, had lost its glow. Only the preceding evening. He hadn\x92t held her interest. The thrill had gone. Which plunged him into moods and brought to his always unruly tongue the sarcastic words that made matters worse. He was lunching down there to-day--he and Humphrey--and dreaded it, with moments of a rather futile, flickering hope. Deep intuition informed him that the one sure solution was money. You couldn\x92t get on with a girl without it. Just about so far, then things dragged. And this, of course, brought him around the circle, back to the main topic. He was thinking about his clothes. They, at least, should move Corinne. Along with the moustache, the cane, the cord on his glasses. He didn\x92t see how people could help being a little impressed. Miss Wombast, even, who didn\x92t matter. It seemed to him that she _was_ impressed. He was thinking about Martha Caldwell., She was pretty frankly going with James B. Merchant, Jr., now. Henry was jealous of James B. Merchant, Jr. And about Martha his thoughts hovered with a tinge of romantic sadness. He would like her to see him to-day, in these clothes, with his moustache and cane. He was wondering, with the dread that the prospect of mental effort always roused in him, how on earth he was ever to write three whole columns about the Annual Business Men\x92s Picnic of the preceding afternoon. Describing in humorous yet friendly detail the three-legged race, the ball game between the fats and the leans, the dinner in the grove, the concert by Foote\x92s full band of twenty pieces, the purse given to Charlie Waterhouse as the most popular man on Simpson Street. He had a thick wad of notes up at the rooms, but his heart was not in the laborious task of expanding them. He knew precisely what old man Boice expected of him--plenty of \x91personal mention\x92 for all the advertisers, giving space for space. Each day that he put it off would make the task harder. If he didn\x92t have the complete story in by Thursday night, Humphrey would skin him alive; yet here it was Wednesday morning, and he was planning to spend as much of the day as possible with the increasingly unresponsive Corinne. Life was difficult! He was aware of a morbid craving in his digestive tract. He decided to get an ice-cream soda on the way back to the office. He would have liked about half a pound of chocolate creams. The Italian kind, with all the sweet in the white part. But here character intervened. A corner of his mind dwelt unceasingly on queer difficult feelings that came. These had flared out in the unpleasant incident of Mamie Wilcox and the tandem; and again in the present flirtation with Corinne. In a way that he found perplexing, this stir of emotion was related to his gifts. He couldn\x92t let one go without the other. There had been moments--in the old days--when a feeling of power had surged through him. It was a wonderful, irresistible feeling. Riding that wave, he was equal to anything. But it had frightened him. The memory of it frightened him now. He had put _Iolanthe_ through, it was true, but he had also nearly eloped with Ernestine Lambert. He had completely lost his head--debts, everything! Yes, it was as well that Miss Wombast couldn\x92t read his thoughts. She wouldn\x92t have known how to interpret them. She hadn\x92t the capacity to understand the wide swift stream of feeling down which an imaginative boy floats all but rudderless into manhood. She couldn\x92t know of his pitifully inadequate little attempts to shape a course, to catch this breeze and that, even to square around and breast the current of life. Henry said politely:-- \x91Good-morning, Miss Wombast. I just looked in for the notes of new books.\x92 \x91Oh,\x92 she replied quickly. \x91I\x92m sorry you troubled. Mr Boice asked me to mail it to the office at the end of the month. I just sent it--this morning.\x92 She saw his face fall. He mumbled something that sounded like, \x91Oh--all right! Doesn\x92t matter.\x92 For a moment he stood waving his stick in jerky, aimless little circles. Then went off down the stairs. 2 Emerging from Donovan\x92s drug store Henry encountered the ponderous person of old Boice--six feet an inch and a half, head sunk a little between the shoulders, thick yellowish-white whiskers waving down over a black bow tie and a spotted, roundly protruding vest, a heavy old watch chain with insignia of a fraternal order hanging as a charm; inscrutable, washed-out blue eyes in a deeply lined but nearly expressionless face. Henry stopped short; stared at his employer. Mr Boice did not stop. But as he moved deliberately by, his faded eyes took in every detail of Henry\x92s not unremarkable personal appearance. Henry was thinking: \x91Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and I\x92d get back at him. Run him out of town, that\x92s what!\x92 And after he had nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: \x91Like to know why I should work my head off just to make money for _him_. No sense in that!\x92 Henry came moodily into the _Voice_ office, dropped down at his inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He picked up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots. The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob pipe in mouth, writing very rapidly. \x91He\x92s got wonderful concentration,\x92 thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self. Humphrey spoke without looking up. \x91Don\x92t let that Business Men\x92s Picnic get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two compositors loafing out there.\x92 Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily, helplessly at the wall... \x91Old man say anything to you about the \x93Library Notes\x94?\x92 Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled thoughtfully. \x91Yes. Just now. He\x92s going to have Miss Wombast send \x91em in direct every month.\x92 \x91And I don\x92t have \x91em any more.\x92 Humphrey considered this fact. \x91It doesn\x92t amount to very much, Hen.\x92 \x91Oh, no--works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain\x92t that altogether--it\x92s the principle. I\x92m getting tired of it!\x92 The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it. Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and shook it a little. \x91Do you know what\x92s he done to me--that old doubleface? Took me in here two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited. Well, I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I\x92d rowed and begged for seven months. A year of that, a lot more work--You know! \x93Club Notes,\x94 this library stuff, \x93Real Estate Happenings,\x94 \x93Along Simpson Street,\x94 reading proof--\x92 Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked. \x91--And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was worth more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what does he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another, and piling on the proof and the office work. Here\x92s one thing more gone to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six cents. Dam it, it ain\x92t fair! I can\x92t _live!_ I won\x92t stand it. Gotta be ten a week or I--I\x92ll find out why. Show-down.\x92 He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down the street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where people sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs. Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked quietly:-- \x91Look here, Hen, I don\x92t like it any more than you do. I\x92ve seen what he was doing. I\x92ve tried to forestall him once or twice----\x92 \x91I know it, Hump.\x92 Henry turned. He was quite listless now. \x91He\x92s a tricky old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do--or that we could do together----\x92 \x91But--this was what I was going to say--no matter how we feel, I\x92m going to be really in trouble if I don\x92t get that picnic story pretty soon. Mr Boice asked about it this morning.\x92 Henry leaned against Mr Boice\x92s desk, up by the window; dropped his chin into one hand. \x91I\x92ll do it, Hump. This afternoon. Or to-night. We\x92re going down to Mildred\x92s this noon, of course.\x92 \x91That\x92s part of what\x92s bothering me. God knows how soon after that you\x92ll break away from Corinne.\x92 \x91Pretty dam soon,\x92 remarked Henry sullenly, \x91the way things are going now.... I\x92ll get at it, Hump. Honest I will. But right now\x92--he moved a hand weakly through the air--\x91I just couldn\x92t. You don\x92t know how I feel. I _couldn\x92t!_\x92 \x91Where you going now?\x92 \x91I don\x92t know.\x92 The hand moved again. \x91Walk around. Gotta be by myself. Sorta think it out. This is one of the days... I\x92ve been thinking--be twenty-one in November. _Then_ I\x92ll show him, and all the rest of \x91em. Have a little money then. I\x92ll show this hypocritical old town a few things--a few things....\x92 His voice died to a mumble. He felt with limp fingers at his moustache. \x91I\x92ll be ready quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,\x92 Humphrey called after him as he moved mournfully out to the street. 3 Mr Boice moved heavily along, inclining his massive head, without a smile, to this acquaintance and that, and turned in at Schultz and Schwartz\x92s. The spectacle of Henry Calverly--in spotless white and blue, with the moustache, and the stick--had irritated him. Deeply. A boy who couldn\x92t earn eight dollars a week parading Simpson Street in that rig, on a week-day morning! He felt strongly that Henry had no business sticking out that way, above the village level. Hitting you in the eyes. Young Jenkins was bad enough, but at least his father had the money. Real money. And could let his son waste it if he chose. But a conceited young chump like Henry Calverly! Ought to be chucked into a factory somewhere. Stoke a furnace. Carry boxes. Work with his hands. Get down to brass tacks and see if he had any stuff in him. Doubtful. Mr Boice made a low sound, a wheezy sound between a grunt and a hum, as he handed his hat to the black, muscular, bullet-headed, grinning Pinkie Potter, who specialised in hats and shoes in Sunbury\x92s leading barber shop. He made another sound that was quite a grunt as he sank into the red plush barber chair of Heinie Schultz. His massive frame was clumsy, and the twinges of lumbago, varied by touches of neuritis, that had come steadily upon him since middle life, added to the difficulties of moving it about. He always made these sounds. He would stop on the street, take your hand non-committally in his huge, rather limp paw, and grunt before he spoke, between phrases, and when moving away. Heinie Schultz, who was straw-coloured, thin, listlessly patient (Bill Schwartz was the noisy fat one), knew that the thick, yellowish gray hair was to be cut round in the back and the neck shaved beneath it. The beard was to be trimmed delicately, reverently--\x91not cut, just the rags taken off\x92--and combed out. Heinie had attended to this hair and beard for sixteen years. \x91Heard a good one,\x92 murmured Heinie, close to his patron\x92s ear. \x91There was a bride and groom got on the sleeping car up to Duluth--\x92 A thin man of about thirty-five entered the shop, tossed his hat to Pinkie, and dropped into Bill Schwartz\x92s chair next the window. The new-comer had straight brown hair, worn a little long over ears and collar. His face was freckled, a little pinched, nervously alert. Behind his gold rimmed spectacles his small sharp eyes appeared to be darting this way and that, keen, penetrating through the ordinary comfortable surfaces of life. This was Robert A. McGibbon, editor and proprietor of the _Sunbury Weekly Gleaner_. He had appeared in the village hardly six months back with a little money--enough, at least, to buy the presses, give a little for good will, assume the rent and the few business debts that Nicholas Simms Godfrey had been able to contract before his health broke, and to pay his own board at the Wombasts\x92 on Filbert Avenue. His appearance in local journalism had created a new tension in the village and his appearance now in the barber shop created tension there. Heinie\x92s vulgar little anecdote froze on his lips. Mr Boice, impassive, heavily deliberate, after one glimpse of the fellow in the long mirror before him, lay back in the chair, gazed straight upward at the fly-specked ceiling. Mr Boice, when face to face with Robert A. McGibbon on the street, inclined his head to him as to others. But up and down the street his barely expressed disapproval of the man was felt to have a root in feelings and traditions infinitely deeper than the mere natural antagonism to a fresh competitor in the local field. For McGibbon was--the term was a new one that had caught the popular imagination and was worming swiftly into the American language--a yellow journalist. He had worked, he boasted openly, on a sensationally new daily in New York. In the once staid old _Gleaner_ he used boldfaced headlines, touched with irritating acumen on scandal, assailed the ruling political triumvirate, and made the paper generally fascinating as well as disturbing. As a result, he was picking up subscribers rapidly. Advertising, of course, was another matter. And Boice had all the village and county printing. The political triumvirate mentioned above was composed of Boice himself, Charles H. Waterhouse, town treasurer, and Mr Weston of the Sunbury National Bank. For a decade their rule had not been questioned along the street. The other really prominent men of Sunbury all had their business interests in Chicago, and at that time used the village merely for sleeping and as a point of departure for the very new golf links. Such men, I mean, as B. L. Ames, John W. MacLouden, William B. Snow, and J. E. Jenkins. The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the triumvirate. (McGibbon referred to them always as the \x91Old Cinch.\x92) The _Gleaner_ had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an audit of Charlie Waterhouse\x92s town accounts by a new, politically disinterested group. It accused the bank of withholding proper support from men of whom old Boice disapproved. It demanded a share of the village printing. The \x91Old Cinch\x92 were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in town, to refer to him always as a \x91Democrat.\x92 This damned him with many. He called himself an \x91Independent.\x92 Which amused Charlie Waterhouse greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn\x92t a decent Republican had to be a Democrat. In the nature of things. And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself with. Bill Schwartz took McGibbon\x92s spectacles, tucked the towel around his scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest. McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers that waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his razor. \x91How are you, Mr Boice?\x92 McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully. Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed it down. \x91Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson\x92s.\x92 Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound. \x91Who wrote it?\x92 No answer. \x91Henry Calverly?\x92 A grunt. \x91Thought so!\x92 McGibbon chuckled. Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the mirror. Heinie pulled it back. \x91Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.\x92 McGibbon was sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a clipping. Read aloud with gusto:-- \x91\x93Mrs Stelton\x92s art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction.\x94\x92 McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. Bill pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. Two other customers had come in. \x91Great stuff that!\x92 observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor. \x91\x93Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament \x93! \x93A superstructure of technical authority\x94! Great! Fine! That boy\x92ll do something yet. Handled right. Wish he was working for me.\x92 Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now raised his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise it. Bill paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked up from the shoes he was polishing. \x91Well,\x92 he roared huskily, \x91what in hell\x92s the matter with that!\x92 Just then Bill turned McGibbon\x92s head the other way. He too raised his voice. But cheerfully. \x91Nothing much. Nice lot o\x92 words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn\x92t there. Sprained her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.\x92 Bill Schwartz had a trumpet-like Prussian voice. The situation seemed to him to contain the elements of humour. He laughed boisterously. Heinie Schultz, more politic, tittered softly, shears against mouth. Pinkie Potter laughed convulsively, and beat out an intricate rag-time tattoo on his bootblack\x92s stand with his brush. 4 It was Mr Boice\x92s fixed habit to go on, toward noon, to the post-office. Instead, to-day, he returned to the _Voice_ office. He seated himself at his desk for a quarter of an hour, doing nothing. He had the faculty of sitting still, ruminating. Finally he reached out for the two-foot rule that always lay on his desk, and carefully measured a certain article in last week\x92s paper. Then did a little figuring. He rose, moved toward the door; turned, and remarked to the wondering Humphrey:-- \x91Take fifteen inches off Henry\x92s string this week, Weaver. A dollar \x91n\x92 five cents. Be at the post-office if anybody wants me.\x92 And went out. Humphrey himself measured Henry\x92s article on the musicale. Old Boice had been accurate enough; it came to an even fifteen inches. Which at seven cents an inch, would be a dollar and five cents. When Henry reappeared and together they set out for Lower Chestnut Avenue, Humphrey found he hadn\x92t the heart to break this fresh disappointment to his friend. He decided to let it drift until the Saturday. Something might turn up. Henry\x92s mood had changed. He had left the office, an hour earlier, looking like a discouraged boy. Now he was serious, silent, hard to talk to. He seemed three years older. With certain of Henry\x92s rather violently contrasted phases Humphrey was familiar; but he had never seen him look quite like this. Henry was strung up. Plainly. He walked very fast, striding intently forward. At least once in each block he found himself a yard ahead of his companion, checked himself, muttered a few words that sounded vaguely like an apology and then repeated the process. At Mrs Henderson\x92s Henry was grave and curiously attractive. He had charm, no doubt of it--a sort of charm that women, older women, felt. Mildred Henderson distinctly played up to him. And Corinne, Humphrey noted, watched him now and then; the quietly observant keenness in her big dark eyes masked by her easy, lazy smile. Toward the close of luncheon Henry\x92s evident inner tension showed signs of taking the form of gaiety. He acted like a young man wholly sure of himself. Humphrey\x92s net impression, after more than a year and a half of close association with the boy, was that he couldn\x92t ever be sure of himself. Not for one minute. Yet, when they threw down their napkins and pushed back their chairs, it was Henry who said, with an apparently easy arrogance back of his grain:-- \x91Hump, you\x92ve got to be going back so soon, we\x92re going to give you and Mildred the living-room. We\x92ll wash the dishes.\x92 Humphrey noted the quick little snap of amusement in Mrs Henderson\x92s eyes (Henry had not before openly used her first name) and the demure, expressionless look that came over Corinne\x92s face. Neither was displeased. To Mrs Henderson\x92s, \x91You\x92ll do no such thing!\x92 Henry responded smilingly:-- \x91I won\x92t be contradicted. Not to-day.\x92 Corinne was still silent. But Mrs Henderson, now frankly amused, asked:-- \x91Why the to-day, Henry?\x92 \x91Oh, I don\x92t know. Just the way I feel,\x92 said he; and ushered her with mock politeness into the front room, then, gallantly, almost nonchalantly, took the elbow of the unresisting Corinne and led her toward the kitchen. Humphrey lighted a cigarette and watched them go. Then with a slight heightening of his usually sallow colour, followed his hostess into the living-room. It will be evident to the reader that among these four young persons, rather casually thrown together in the first instance, something of an \x91understanding\x92 had grown up. There had been a furtive delight about their first gathering at Humphrey\x92s rooms, a sense of exciting variety in humdrum village life, the very real and lively pleasure of exploring fresh personalities. Of late years, looking back, it has seemed to me that Mildred Henderson never really belonged in Sunbury, where a woman\x92s whole duty lay in keeping house economically and as pleasantly as might be for the husband who spent his days in Chicago. And in bearing and rearing his children. I never knew anything of her earlier life, before Arthur V. Henderson brought her to the modest house on Chestnut Avenue. I never could figure why she married him at all. Marriages are made in so many places besides Heaven! He used to like to hear her play. In those days, and a little later, I judged her much as the village judged her--peering out at her through the gun-ports in the armour plate of self-righteousness that is the strong defence of every suburban community. But now I feel that her real mistake lay in waiting so long before drifting to her proper environment in New York. Like all of us, she had, sooner or later, to work out her life in its own terms or die alive of an atrophied spirit. She had gifts, and needed, doubtless, to express them. I can see her now as she was in Sunbury during those years--little, trim, slim, with a quick alert smile and snappy eyes. Not a beautiful woman, perhaps not even an out-and-out pretty one, but curiously attractive. She had much of what men call \x91personality.\x92 And she was efficient, in her own way. She never let her musical gift rust; practised every day of her life, I think. Including Sundays. Which was one of the things Sunbury held against her. Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was quiet about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly face. While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his heart was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in the old Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little inheritance into the place. Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, with ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then man enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a girl with a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. It was still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl had to be a rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was not. For which we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne was young, healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I imagine she found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men and life. She wasn\x92t dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly to-day. But this was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to be, thrilled. An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler\x92s pantry, he would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And Miss Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And of never, never forgetting him. As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take a look. They stood in the butler\x92s pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen sink all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing rack, the soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms. \x91Henry,\x92 she whispered, \x91we _must_ finish the dishes! What on earth will Mildred think?\x92 \x91Let her think!\x92 said Henry. Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long enough to smooth her flying blue-black hair. \x91Henry, I never thought----\x92 \x91Never thought what?\x92 \x91Wait! My hair\x92s all down again. They might come out here. I mean you seemed----\x92 \x91How did I seem? Say it!\x92 \x91Oh well--_Henry_!--I mean sort of--well, reserved. I thought you were shy.\x92 \x91Think so now!\x92 \x91I--well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, you musn\x92t be so--so intense.\x92 \x91But I _am_ intense. I\x92m not the way I look. Nobody knows----\x92 Here he interrupted himself. \x91Oh, Henry,\x92 she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm clinging about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, glowed, sparkled about him. He was exultant. \x91You dear boy--I\x92m afraid you\x92ve made love to lots of girls.\x92 \x91I _haven\x92t!_\x92 he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. \x91Not to lots.\x92 \x91Silly!\x92 A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. \x91Henry, talk to me! Make love to me! Tell me you\x92ll take me away with you--to-day!--now! Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, anyway--even if--oh, Henry, _say_ it!\x92 For an instant Henry\x92s mind went cold and clear. He was a little frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman who clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably smiling Corinne. He thought of Carmen--the Carmen of Calv\xE9. He had suped once in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to the supe captain. The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this\x92 point. As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn\x92t conscientiously so much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present state of his pocket. One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He\x92d _have_ to. Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment, fancied himself. The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson\x92s musical little voice humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony. Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder. They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver, doubtless. \x91Hate to disturb you two,\x92 she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous sympathy in her voice, \x91but I promised Humphrey I\x92d get after you, Henry. He says you simply must get some work done to-day.\x92 Henry stood motionless, trying to think.\x92 \x91Do your work here,\x92 Corinne whispered. \x91Stay.\x92 He shook his head. \x91A lot I\x92d get done--here with you. Now.\x92 \x91I\x92ll help you. Couldn\x92t I be just a little inspiration to you?\x92 \x91It ain\x92t inspiring work.\x92 \x91Henry--write something for me! Write me a poem! \x91All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men\x92s Picnic. Then he said, \x91Wait a minute;\x92 went into the kitchen. \x91Going over town,\x92 he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson. At the outer door, Corinne murmured: \x91You\x92ll come back, Henry?\x92 With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he replied: \x91Yes, of course.\x92 And hurried off. 6 Mr Boice wasn\x92t at his desk at the _Voice_ sanctum. Henry could see that much through the front window. He didn\x92t go in. He felt that he couldn\x92t talk with Humphrey--or anybody--right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a regiment. He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please speak to Mr Boice. Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn\x92t seem to let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose time was so valuable that he couldn\x92t arrange to do his work. And once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers. He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; made sounds. \x91Mr Boice,\x92 said Henry, \x91I--I want to speak with you. It\x92s--it\x92s this way. I don\x92t feel that you\x92re doing quite the right thing by me.\x92 Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence. \x91You gave me to understand that I\x92d get better pay if I suited. Well, the way you\x92re doing it, I don\x92t even get as much. It ain\x92t right! It ain\x92t square! Now--well--you see, I\x92ve about come to the conclusion that if the work I do ain\x92t worth ten a week--well----\x92 It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician of something like forty years\x92 experience. As such he put no trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn\x92t written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day--week--or month. Henry didn\x92t dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the controversy. Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still. Henry chafed. After a time Mr Boice asked, \x91Have you done the story of the Business Men\x92s Picnic?\x92 Henry shook his head. \x91Better get it done, hadn\x92t you?\x92 Henry shook his head again. Mr Boice continued to sit--motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran to this effect:--The article on the picnic was by far the most important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter. \x91Suppose,\x92 he remarked, \x91you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can have a little talk if you like. I\x92m rather busy this afternoon.\x92 He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds that passed his lips--colourless, casual. Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers tightened about his stick. His colour rose. He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk. \x91Mr Boice,\x92 he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder window--\x91Mr Boice, what I want from you won\x92t take two minutes of your time. You\x92d better tell me, right now, whether I\x92m worth ten dollars a week to the _Voice_. Beginning this week. If I\x92m not--I\x92ll hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can\x92t do better\x92n this! I wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I\x92ll show the whole crowd of you a thing or two! Maybe----\x92 For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and through Norton P. Boice. Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the door. \x91Get out of here!\x92 he roared. \x91And stay out!\x92 Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed. Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole counters. Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He wanted desperately to do something, but didn\x92t know what it could be. It was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to get out. He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor. There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne had spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had danced over the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without Her, was painfully empty. He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn\x92t know what. The wild animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and saw and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, surely it was the poem! He found pencil and paper--a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the window-seat. Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness--it was a mighty passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint as to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And at once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. It would have to come out. 7 Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking chair by the front window. Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof. Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted _u_ in a page of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked. Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers. It was a decade or more since the \x91editor\x92 of the Voice had done any actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly beyond him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country hack. The deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another sort of thinking. For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon. Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds. Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe. \x91Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men\x92s Picnic, Weaver,\x92 he remarked. \x91Henry\x92s doing that.\x92 Mr Boice\x92s massive head moved slowly, sidewise. \x91No,\x92 he said, \x91he won\x92t be doing it.\x92 Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm of his hand. Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door. \x91I\x92ve let Henry go,\x92 he said. Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it. Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back. \x91I\x92ll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.\x92 Humphrey shook his head. Mr Boice stood looking at him. \x91No,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91Afraid I can\x92t help you out.\x92 Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:-- \x91I wasn\x92t there.\x92 Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook and fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk and creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper. Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought of suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press Association, might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the picnic. He could write the story easily enough, if he could spare the time. A faint smile flitted across his face at the reflection that it would cost old Boice five or six times what he was usually willing to pay in the _Voice_. But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper, did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out. 8 Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson\x92s front hall, closed the screen door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There seemed to be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, doubtless, getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother cooking anything hot. He hung up his hat. Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step, against the wall. It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her head. She motioned him out toward the kitchen. There he found his hostess. \x91Seen Henry?\x92 he asked. \x91Old Boice fired him to-day, and he\x92s disappeared. Not at the rooms. And I looked in at the Y.M.C.A.\x92 \x91He\x92s here,\x92 said Mildred. \x91A very interesting thing is happening, Humphrey. I\x92ve always told you he was a genius.\x92 \x91But what\x92s up?\x92 \x91We\x92ve got him upstairs at my desk. He\x92s writing something. I think it\x92s a poem for Corinne.\x92 \x91A poem! But----\x92 \x91It\x92s really quite wonderful. Now don\x92t you go and throw cold water on it, Humphrey.\x92 She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron, her face flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through his arm, and looked up at him. \x91It\x92s really very exciting. I haven\x92t seen the boy act this way for two years. He came in here, all out of breath, and said he had to write. He didn\x92t seem to know what. He\x92s quite wild I never in my life saw such concentration. It seems that he\x92s promised Corinne a poem.\x92 \x91Wonder what\x92s got into him,\x92 Humphrey mused. Mildred returned to her salad dressing. \x91Genius has got into him,\x92 she said, a bright little snap in her eyes. \x91And it\x92s coming out. He\x92s been up there nearly two hours now. Corinne\x92s guarding. She\x92d kill you if you disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there\x92s a lot of it--all over the floor--and he was writing like mad. She couldn\x92t see any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved her out.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 said Humphrey. \x91Humphrey, my dear,\x92 said Mildred then, \x91I\x92m really afraid we\x92ve got to watch those two a little. Something\x92s been happening to-day. Corinne has gone perfectly mad over him--to-day--all of a sudden. She fretted every minute he was away. Henry doesn\x92t know it, but Corinne is a pretty self-willed girl. And just now she\x92s got her mind on him.\x92 She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that, might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her eyes. \x91I\x92ve really been worrying a little about them. About Henry particularly, for some reason.\x92 She gave a soft little laugh, and pressed his arm. \x91They\x92re so young, Humphrey--such green little things. Or he is, at least. I\x92ve been impatient for you to come.\x92 \x91I got down as soon as I could,\x92 said Humphrey, looking down at her. \x91Of course, I know.\x92 \x91I\x92ve been worrying about him, too.\x92 When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and herself tiptoed up the stairs. She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts. \x91He won\x92t eat,\x92 she explained. \x91He\x92s still at it. I wish you could see my room. It\x92s a sight.\x92 \x91Corinne coming down?\x92 \x91Not she. She won\x92t budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, but... Well, it gives us a nice little _t\xE9te-\xE0-t\xEAte_ supper. I\x92ve made iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won\x92t you!\x92 After supper they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had switched on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She beckoned to them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs. \x91I can\x92t make it out,\x92 she whispered. \x91It isn\x92t poetry. And he doesn\x92t number his pages.\x92 \x91How did you ever get them?\x92 asked Mildred. \x91Went in and gathered them up. He didn\x92t hear me. He\x92s still at it.\x92 Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of this sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in order; finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women. \x91What is it?\x92 they asked. He chuckled softly. \x91Well, it isn\x92t poetry.\x92 \x91I saw that much,\x92 Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. \x91It\x92s--wait a minute! I couldn\x92t believe it at first. It--no--yes, that\x92s what it is.\x92 \x91_What!_\x92 Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred\x92s feet, and laughed, softly at first, then with increasing vigour. Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the sofa and laughed until tears came. Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them. \x91Here,\x92 said Humphrey, when he could speak, \x91let\x92s get into this.\x92 They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed them over with a practised eye, arranging as he read. Once he muttered, \x91What on earth!\x92 And shortly after: \x91Why, the young devil!\x92 \x91Please--\x92 said Corinne. \x91Please! I want to know what it is.\x92, Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table. \x91Well,\x92 he remarked, \x91it is certainly an account of the Business Men\x92s Picnic. And it certainly was _not_ written for _The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_. I\x92ll start in a minute and read it through. But from what I\x92ve seen---- Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque--naturally--still it comes pretty close to being a work of art. \x91Tell you what the boy\x92s done. He\x92s gone at that little community outing just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he\x92d never seen any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and William F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston of the bank, and--and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch counter down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and old Boice! It\x92s a crime what he\x92s done to Boice. If this ever appears, Sunbury will be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it\x92s grand writing.... He\x92s got\x92em all in, their clothes, their little mannerisms--their tricks of speech... Wait, I\x92ll read it.\x92 Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance was taking place, right here in the house. \x91One thing I don\x92t quite understand,\x92 said Mildred. \x91It\x92s a lovely bit of writing--he makes you see it and feel it--where Mr Boice and Charles Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr Waterhouse is upset because the purse they\x92re going to surprise him with for being the most popular man in town isn\x92t large enough. What _is_ all that, anyway?\x92 \x91I know,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91I was wondering about that. It\x92s funny as the dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling about it. It\x92s--let\x92s see--oh, yes! And Boice says, \x93It won\x92t help you to worry, Charlie. We\x92re doing what we can for you. But it\x92ll take time. And it\x92s a chance!\x94... Funny!\x92 He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. \x91Hm!\x92 he remarked thoughtfully. \x91Mildred, got any cigarettes?\x92 \x91Yes, I have, but I don\x92t care to be mystified like this. Take one, and tell me exactly what you\x92re thinking.\x92 \x91I\x92m thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this story as it stands, right now.\x92 \x91Why?\x92 \x91Because he\x92s gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.\x92 \x91And what\x92s this?\x92 \x91Evidence.\x92 Humphrey was grave now. \x91Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.\x92 \x91He\x92s really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!\x92 \x91And he doesn\x92t know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it may be serious. They\x92d duck him in the lake. They\x92d drown him.\x92 \x91But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really puncture the frauds in this smug town.\x92 \x91There is something in that,\x92 mused Humphrey. \x91Ssh!\x92 From Mildred. They heard a slow step on the stairs. A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he saw them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was coatless, but plainly didn\x92t know it. His straight brown hair was rumpled up on one side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He was pale, and looked tired about the eyes. He carried more of the manuscript. He stared at them as if he couldn\x92t quite make them out, or as if not sure he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and slowly, rather wanly, smiled. \x91I had no idea it was so late,\x92 he said. Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big chair into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and studied the brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, on the curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative woman at the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the elemental mother were moved. \x91That\x92s probably it,\x92 he thought. \x91And it\x92s what the boy has needed. Martha Caldwell couldn\x92t give it to him--never in the world! He was groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn\x92t do to tell him--no, I mustn\x92t tell him; got to steady him down all I can--but I rather guess he\x92s been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two years.\x92 9 Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and picked up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed. He went straight to Boice\x92s house on Upper Chestnut Avenue. \x91What has all this to do with me?\x92 asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors in his roomy library. \x91Let him write anything he likes.\x92 Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript. \x91This,\x92 he said, \x91is a real piece of writing. It\x92s the best picture of a community outing I ever read in my life. It\x92s vivid. The characters are so real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson Street and call fifteen people by name. He\x92d know how their voices sound, what their weaknesses are, what they\x92re really thinking about Sunday mornings in church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they won\x92t know it on Simpson Street. They\x92ll be sore as pups, every man. He\x92s taken their skulls off and looked in. He\x92s as impersonal, as cruel, as Shakespeare.\x92 This sounded pretty highfalutin\x92 to Mr Boice. He made a reflective sound; then remarked:-- \x91You think the advertisers wouldn\x92t like it,\x92 \x91They\x92d hate it. They\x92d fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But McGibbon wouldn\x92t mind. Or if he didn\x92t have the nerve to print it, any Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.\x92 \x91Well, what----\x92 Humphrey quietly interrupted. \x91Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch of genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they\x92d laugh. No doubt about that. All sorts of scenes--you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the lemonade stand--Bill Parker\x92s little accident in the tug-of-war.\x92 He read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the room; then come back. When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to momentary admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual. \x91What are you getting at?\x92 he asked. \x91You want something.\x92 \x91I want you to take Hemy back at--say, twelve a week.\x92 \x91Hm. Have him re-write this?\x92 \x91No. Henry won\x92t be able to write another word this week. He\x92s empty. My idea is, Mr Boice, that you\x92ll want to do the cutting yourself. When you\x92ve done that, I\x92ll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three columns out of it all right.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 \x91There\x92s one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn\x92t know what he\x92s written. No idea. It\x92s a flash of pure genius.\x92 \x91Don\x92t know that we\x92ve got much use for a genius on the _Voice_,\x92 grunted Mr Boice. \x91He ought to go to Chicago or New York.\x92 \x91He will, some day.\x92 Humphrey rose. \x91Will you send for him in the morning?\x92 There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:--\x91Tell him to come around.\x92 \x91Twelve a week, including this week?\x92 The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly. \x91Very well, I\x92ll tell him.\x92 \x91You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.\x92 \x91No.\x92 Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket. \x91Henry will have to give it to you himself. It\x92s his. Good-night.\x92 Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare in his life:-- \x91We won\x92t either of us be long on the _Voice_. Not now. But it\x92s great going while it lasts.\x92 And he wondered, with a little stir of excitement, just why that purse wasn\x92t enough for Charlie Waterhouse... just what old Boice knew... Why it was a chance! Curious! Something back of it, something that McGibbon was eternally pounding at--hinting--insinuating. Something real there; something that might never be known. 10 Humphrey felt that the little triumph--though it might indeed prove temporary; any victory over old Boice in Sunbury affairs was likely to be that--called for celebrating in some special degree. He had, it seemed, a few bottles of beer at the rooms. So thither they adjourned; Mildred and Humphrey strolling slowly ahead, Corinne and Henry strolling still more slowly behind. Henry seemed fagged. At least he was quiet. Corinne, stirred with a sympathetic interest not common to her sort of nature, stole hesitant glances at him, even, finally, slipped her hand through his arm. She hung back. Mildred and Humphrey disappeared in the shadows of the maples a block ahead. \x91I suppose you\x92re pretty tired, aren\x92t you?\x92 Corinne murmured. Her voice seemed to waken him out of a dream. \x91I--I--what was that? Oh--tired? Why, I don\x92t know. Sorta.\x92 Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he was unaware. \x91I\x92m frightfully excited,\x92 he said, brightening. \x91If you knew what this meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power--but you wouldn\x92t know what that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I\x92m all right now. It\x92s been an awful two years. You\x92ve no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I\x92m up again now. I can do it any time I want. I\x92m free of this dam\x92 town. They can\x92t hold me back now.\x92 \x91You\x92ll do big things,\x92 she said, a mournful note in her voice. \x91I know. I feel that.\x92 And now she stopped short. In a shadow. \x91What is it?\x92 he asked casually. \x91What\x92s the matter?\x92 She glanced at his face; then down. \x91Do you think you\x92ll write--a poem?\x92 she asked almost sullenly. \x91Maybe. I don\x92t know. It\x92s queer--you get all stirred up inside, and then something comes. You can\x92t tell what it\x92s going to be. It\x92s as if it came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.\x92 She moved on now, bringing him with her. \x91Mildred and Humphrey\x92ll wonder where we are,\x92 she said crossly. Henry glanced down at her; then at the shadowy arch of maples ahead. He wondered what was the matter with her. Girls were, of course, notoriously difficult. Never knew their own minds. He was exultantly happy. It had been a great day. Twelve a week now, and going up! Hump was a good old soul.... He recalled, with a recurrence of both the thrill and the conservatism that had come then, that he had had a great time with Corinne in the early afternoon. Mustn\x92t go too far with that sort of thing, of course. But she was sure a peach. And she didn\x92t seem the sort that would be for ever trying to pin you down. He took her hand now. It was great to feel her there, close beside him.\x92 Corinne walked more rapidly. He didn\x92t know that she was biting her lip. Nor did he perceive what she saw clearly, bitterly; that she had unwittingly served a purpose in his life, which he would never understand. And she saw, too, that the little job was, for the present, at least, over and done with. She stole another sidelong glance at him. He was twisting up the ends of his moustache. And humming. IV--THE WHITE STAR 1 |From the university clock, up in the north end of Sunbury village, twelve slow strokes boomed out. Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V. Henderson\x92s front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily. Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag. At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep. The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut itself off from the generator when fully charged. Henry\x92s emotional, nature was of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and automatically he cut her off. The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering quarrel. Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake--\x91Back in a few minutes,\x92 Mildred had remarked--the quarrel had been made up. Neither could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on a hammock footing. Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The thrill of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he had defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations that he supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he was experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think coolly about it, revel in it. Corinne\x92s head stirred. \x91That was midnight,\x92 she murmured. \x91What of it?\x92 \x91I suppose I ought to be thinking about going in.\x92 \x91I don\x92t see that your chaperon\x92s in such a rush.\x92 \x91I know. They\x92ve been hours. They might have walked around to the rooms.\x92 Henry was a little shocked at the thought. \x91Oh, no,\x92 he remarked. \x91They\x92d hardly have gone _there_--without us.\x92 \x91Mildred would if she wanted to. It has seemed to me lately...\x92 \x91What?\x92 \x91I don\x92t know--but once or twice--as if she might be getting a little too fond of Humphrey.\x92 \x91Oh\x92--there was concern in Henry\x92s voice--\x91do you think so?\x92 \x91I wonder if you know just how fascinating that man is, Henry.\x92 \x91He\x92s never been with girls--not around here. You\x92ve no idea--he just lives with his books, and in his shop.\x92 \x91Perhaps that\x92s why,\x92 said she. \x91Partly. Mildred ought to be careful.\x92 Henry, soberly considering this new light on his friend, looked off toward the corner. He sat up abruptly. \x91Henry\x92 For goodness\x92 sake! Ouch--my hair!\x92 \x91Ssh! Look--that man coming across! Wait. There now--with a suit-case!\x92 \x91Oh, Henry, you scared me! Don\x92t be silly. He\x92s way out in... Henry! How awful! It _is!_\x92 \x91What\x92ll we do?\x92 \x91I don\x92t know. Get up. Sit over there,\x92 She was working at her hair; she smoothed her \x91waist,\x92 and pulled out the puff sleeves. The man came rapidly nearer. His straw hat was tipped back. They could see the light of a cigar. A mental note of Henry\x92s was that Arthur V. Henderson had been a football player at the state university. And a boxer. Even out of condition he was a strong man. \x91Quick--think of something to tell him! It\x92ll have to be a lie. Henry--_think!_\x92 Then, as he stood motionless, helpless, she got up, thrust his hat and bamboo stick into his hands, and led him on tiptoe around the corner of the house. \x91We\x92ve got to do something. Henry, for goodness\x92 sake--\x92 \x91We\x92ve got to find her, I think.\x92 \x91I know it. But----\x92 \x91If she came in with Hump, and he--you know, this time\x92 of night--why, something awful might happen. There might be murder. Mr Henderson----\x92 \x91Don\x92t talk such stuff! Keep your head. Well--he\x92s coming! Here!\x92 She gripped his hand, dragged him down the side steps, and ran lightly with him out past the woodshed to the alley. They walked to the side street and, keeping in the shadows, out to the Chestnut Avenue corner. From this spot they commanded the house. Mr Henderson had switched on lights in front hall, dining-room, and kitchen. The parlour was still dark. Next he had gone upstairs, for there were lights in the upper windows. After a brief time he appeared in the front doorway. He lighted a fresh cigar, then opened the screen door and came out on the porch. He stood there, looking up and down the street. Then he seated himself on the top step, elbows on knees, like a man thinking. \x91Henry!\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 \x91Listen! You go over to the rooms and see.\x92 \x91But they might be down at the lake.\x92 \x91Not all this time. Mildred doesn\x92t like sitting on beaches. If you find them, bring her back. We\x92ll go in together, she and I. We\x92ll patch up a story. It\x92s all right. Just keep your head.\x92 \x91What\x92ll you do?\x92 \x91Wait here.\x92 \x91I don\x92t like to leave you.\x92 \x91You\x92ll see me again.\x92 \x91I know, but----\x92 \x91Well... Now hurry!\x92 2 The old barn was dark. \x91Hm!\x92 mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. \x91Hm! Certainly aren\x92t here. Take a look though.\x92 With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, peering about for the electric switch. He hadn\x92t lived here long enough to know the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox\x92s boarding-house. A voice--Humphrey\x92s--said:-- \x91Don\x92t turn the light on.\x92 Then, \x91Is it you, Hen?\x92 There they were--over in the farther window-seat--sitting very still, huddled together--a mere faint shape against the dim outside light. He felt his way around the centre table, toward them. \x91Looking for you,\x92 he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing in his temples. And he was curiously breathless. He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn\x92t thought of this; had just rushed over here, headlong. \x91I suppose it\x92s pretty late,\x92 said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality in her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent. \x91Well\x92--Humphrey\x92s voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that now and then crept into it--\x91anything special, Hen? Here we are!\x92 Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms. Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand. Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very quiet\x92, she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from the world and give toys to. Henry, to his own amazement--and chagrin--covered his face and sobbed. \x91Good lord!\x92 said Humphrey. \x91What\x92s all this? What\x92s the matter?\x92 The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:-- \x91Has my husband come home?\x92 Henry nodded. \x91Where\x92s Corinne?\x92 \x91She--she\x92s waiting on the corner, in case you.... Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug. \x91Did he--did he see either of you?\x92 Henry shook his head. Mildred pressed a finger to her lips. \x91We mustn\x92t leave Corinne waiting out there,\x92 she said. Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre gaze settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she raised her head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the question:-- \x91Stay here?\x92 Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other hand. But she shook her head. A little later he said. \x91Come then, dear. We\x92ll go down there.\x92 From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred, very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes rested on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands. \x91It\x92s--it\x92s the limit!\x92 he whispered. \x91You see--my hat....\x92 That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. His mouth even moved a little. But no sound came. Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis he ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn\x92t stand here indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley. Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were silent, Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure recovered from his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make talk. He spoke of the stillness of the night. He said, \x91It\x92s the only time I like the town--after midnight. You don\x92t have to see the people then.\x92 Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still. Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a practical frame of mind. \x91There he is,\x92 she whispered. \x91Been sitting right there all the time. This is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I\x92ve figured it all out. No good in letting ourselves get excited. It\x92s all right. You and I will walk up with Henry. Just take it for granted that you\x92ve been down to the lake with us. We needn\x92t even explain.\x92 Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey\x92s arm, seemed to be looking at her. Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand groped up toward Humphrey\x92s shoulder. \x91Wait!\x92 she said breathlessly. \x91I can\x92t go in there now. Not right now. Wait a little. I can\x92t!\x92 Humphrey led her away into the shadows. Corinne looked at Henry. \x91Hm!\x92 she murmured--\x91serious!\x92 The university clock struck one. Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat. His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his mind was thinking clearly, coldly:-- \x91This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I\x92m seeing it! I\x92m in it, part of it!\x92 3 Corinne was peering into the shadows. \x91Where\x92d they go?\x92 she said. \x91We\x92ve got to find them. This thing\x92s getting worse every minute.\x92 Mildred and Humphrey were sitting on a horse block, side by side, very still. It was in front of the B. L. Ames place. Corinne stood over them. But Henry hung back; leaned weakly against a tree. The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An odd little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the lawn seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading oak, over by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats and a ladder to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him up there. Two long years back! He was eighteen then--a mere boy, with illusions and dreams. He wasn\x92t welcome to Mary Ames\x92s any more. She didn\x92t approve of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of small-town work on Simpson Street. They weren\x92t fair to him. He didn\x92t drink; smoked almost none; let the girls alone more than many young fellows--in spite of a few little things. If he had money... of course. You had to have money. He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of feeling than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring then, the shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with Ernestine had not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where Ernie was now. They hadn\x92t written for a year and a half. And Clem was Mrs Jefferson Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on La Salle Street) living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely preoccupied with a girl baby. People--women and girls--said it was a beautiful baby. Girls were gushy. He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he would shortly waken. But it wasn\x92t a dream. He felt again the tension of it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing they knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening for it; trying absurdly to strain his ears. He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play _Tess of the D\x92Urbervilles_, and had experienced a painful tension much like this--a strain too great for his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he hadn\x92t gone back for the last act. But there was to be no running out of this. \x91Well,\x92 said Corinne, almost briskly, \x91we\x92re not getting anywhere.\x92 Humphrey threw out his hand irritably. \x91Just--just wait a little,\x92 he said. \x91Can\x92t you see....\x92 \x91It\x92s past one.\x92 Corinne\x92s manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey. Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down. Humphrey, holding Mildred\x92s head against his shoulder, looked up at Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be studying the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl. \x91I don\x92t think you understand,\x92 he finally said. \x91It\x92s very, very awkward. My hat is in there.\x92 \x91Where?\x92 \x91In the parlour. On the piano, I think.\x92 \x91I don\x92t think he lighted the parlour. We three can go up just the same. Now listen. Henry can leave his hat here with you, and get yours when he comes away.\x92 \x91It has my initials in it,\x92 said Humphrey. Corinne walked on the grass to the corner; came swiftly back. \x91Well,\x92 she remarked dryly, \x91he\x92s been in there. The parlour\x92s lighted.\x92 Mildred stirred. \x91Please!\x92 she murmured. \x91Just give me a minute or two. I\x92m going with you.\x92 \x91Suppose,\x92 said Corinne, \x91he _has_ seen the initials.\x92 Mildred\x92s eyes sought Humphrey\x92s. For a long instant, her head back on his shoulder, she gazed at him with an intensity that Henry had not before seen on a woman\x92s face. It was as if she had forgotten himself and Corinne. And then Humphrey\x92s arm tightened about her, as if he, too, had forgotten every one and everything else. Henry had to turn away. He walked to the corner. Neither Humphrey nor Mildred knew whether he went or stayed. Corinne was frowning down at them; thinking desperately. Henry stared at the house, at the dim solitary figure on the top step, at the little red light of the cigar that came and went with the puffs. Henry was breathing hard. His face was burning hot. He hated conflicts, fights; hated them so deeply, felt so inadequate when himself involved, that emotion usually overcame him. Therefore he fought rather frequently, and, on occasions, rather effectively. Emotion will win a fight as often as reason. He considered getting Humphrey to one side, making him listen to reason. He dwelt on the phrase. The mere thought of Mildred being driven back into that house, into the hands of her legal husband, stirred that tendency to sob. He set his teeth on it. They could take her back to the rooms. He would move out. For that matter, if it would save her reputation, they could both move out. At once. But would it save her reputation? He took off his hat; pressed a hand to his forehead; then fussed with his little moustache. Then, as a new thought was born in his brain, born of his emotions, he gave a little start. He looked back at the shadowy group about the Ames\x92s horse block. Apparently they hadn\x92t moved. He looked at his shoes, tennis shoes with rubber soles. He laid hat and stick on the ground by a tree; went little way up the street, past the circle of the corner light and slipped across; moved swiftly, keeping on the grass, around to the alley, came in at the Henderson\x92s back gate, made his way to the side steps. There was a door here that led into an entry. There were doors to kitchen and dining-room on right and left, and the back stairs. Henry knew the house. Kitchen and dining-room were both dark now, but the lights were on in parlour and hall. He got the screen door open without a sound and felt his way into and through the dining-room. It seemed to him that there were a great many chairs in that diningroom. His shins bumped them. They met his outspread hands. Between this room and the parlour the sliding doors were shut. He stood a moment by these doors, wondering if Arthur V. Henderson was still sitting on the top step with his back to the front screen door. Probably. He couldn\x92t very well move without some noise. But it would be impossible to see him out there, with the parlour light on. \x91Deliberately, with extreme caution, her slid back one of the doors. It rumbled a little. He waited, keeping back in the dark, and listened. There was no sound from the porch. The piano stood against the side wall, near the front. On it lay Humphrey\x92s straw hat. Any one by merely looking into it could have seen the initials. And the man on the steps had only to turn his head and look in through the bay window to see piano, hat, and any one who stood near, any one, in fact, in that diagonal half of the room. Henry held his breath and stepped in, nearly to the centre of the room. Here he hesitated. Then beginning slowly, not unlike the sound of a wagon rolling over a distant bridge, a rumbling fell on his ears. It grew louder. It ended in a little bang. 4 Henry glanced behind him. The sliding door had closed. There was a scuffling of feet on the steps. Henry reached up and switched off the electric lamp in the chandelier. Then he stepped forward, found the piano, felt along the top, closed his fingers on the hat, and stood motionless. His first thought was that he would probably be shot. There were steps on the porch. The front door opened and closed. Mr Henderson was standing in the hall now, but not in the parlour doorway. Probably just within the screen door. The hall light put him at a disadvantage; and he couldn\x92t turn it out without crossing that parlour doorway. \x91Who\x92s there!\x92 Mr Henderson\x92s voice was quiet enough. It sounded tired, and nervous. \x91Come out o\x92 there quick! Whoever you are!\x92 Henry was silent. He wasn\x92t particularly frightened. Not now. He even felt some small relief. But he was confronted with some difficulty in deciding what he ought to do. \x91Come out O\x92 there!\x92 Then Henry replied: \x91All right.\x92 And came to the hall doorway. Mr Henderson was leaning a little forward, fists clenched, ready for a spring. He still had the cigar in his mouth. But he dropped back now and surveyed the youth who stood, white-faced, clasping a straw hat tightly under his left arm. He seemed to find it difficult to speak; shifted the cigar about his mouth with mobile lips. He even thrust his hands into his pockets and looked the youth up and down. \x91I came for this hat,\x92 said Henry. \x91It was on the piano.\x92 Still Mr Henderson\x92s eyes searched him up, and down. Eyes that would be sleepy again as soon as this little surprise was over. And they were red, with puffs under them. He was a tall man, with big athletic shoulders and deep chest, but with signs of a beginning corpulence, the physical laxity that a good many men fall into who have been athletes in their teens and twenties but are now getting on into the thirties. It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of drinking rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two tolerant or daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She had always quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her playing of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had technique but no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think she was the most accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; certainly the best within my memory. \x91Say\x92--thus Mr Henderson now--\x91you\x92re Henry Calverly, aren\x92t you?\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 \x91Well, I\x92d like to know what you\x92re doing here.\x92 \x91I told you. I came for this hat.\x92 \x91Your hat?\x92 \x91Didn\x92t you see the initials?\x92 \x91No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn\x92t you come in the front way? What\x92s all this burglar business?\x92 Henry didn\x92t answer. \x91I\x92ll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that this is my house.\x92 \x91No, I don\x92t forget that.\x92 Mr Henderson took out his cigar; turned it in his fingers. Colour came to his face. He spoke abruptly, in a suddenly rising voice. \x91Seems to me there\x92s some mighty queer goings-on around here. Sneaking in at two in the morning!\x92 \x91It isn\x92t two in the morning.\x92 \x91Dam\x92 near it.\x92 \x91It isn\x92t half-past one. I tell you----\x92 Henry paused. His position seemed rather weak. Mr Henderson studied his cigar again. He drew a cigar case from an inside pocket. \x91I don\x92t know\x92s I offered you one,\x92 he said. He almost muttered it. \x91I don\x92t smoke,\x92 said Henry shortly. Mr Henderson resumed the excited tone. It was curious coming in that jumpy way. Even Henry divined the weakness back of it and grew calmer. \x91I\x92ve been out on----\x92 He paused. Mildred had trained him not to use the phrase, \x91on the road.\x92 He resumed with, \x91--on a business trip. More\x92n a month. I swan, I\x92m tired out. Way trains and country hotels. Fierce! If I seem nervous.... Look here, you seem pretty much at home! Perhaps you\x92ll tell me where my wife is!\x92 Henry considered this. Shook his head. \x91Trying to make me think you don\x92t know, eh!\x92 \x91I do know.\x92 Mr Henderson knit his brows over this. Then, instead of immediately pressing the matter, he took out a fresh cigar and lighted it with the butt of the old one. \x91Seems to me you ought to tell me,\x92 he said then. \x91I can\x92t.\x92 \x91That\x92s queer, ain\x92t it?\x92 \x91Well, it\x92s true. I can\x92t.\x92 \x91She wrote me that she had Corinne Doag visiting here.\x92 \x91Yes. She\x92s here.\x92 \x91With my wife? Now?\x92 Henry bowed. He felt confused, and more than a little tired. And he disliked this man, deeply. Found him depressing. But outwardly--he didn\x92t himself dream this--he presented a picture of austere dignity. An effect that was intensified, if anything, by his youth. \x91Anybody else with her and Corinne?\x92 Henry bowed again. \x91A man?\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 Henry was finding him disgusting now. But he must be extremely careful. An unnecessary word might hurt Mildred or Humphrey. Good old Hump! Mr Henderson turned the fresh cigar round and round, looking intently at it. In a surprisingly quiet manner he asked:-- \x91Why doesn\x92t she come home?\x92 Henry looked at the man. Anger swelled within him. \x91Because you\x92re here?\x92 He bit the sentence off. He felt stifled. He wanted to run out, past the man, and breathe in the cool night air. Mr Henderson looked up, then down again at the cigar. Then he pushed open the screen door. \x91May as well sit down and talk this over,\x92 he said. \x91Cooler on the porch. Dam\x92 queer line o\x92 talk. You\x92re young, Calverly. You don\x92t know life. You don\x92t understand these things. My God! When I think... Well, what is it? You seem to be in on this. Speak out! Tell me what she wants. That\x92s one thing about me--I\x92m straight out. Fair and square. Give and take. I\x92m no hand for beating about the bush. Come on with it. What does she think I ought to do?\x92 \x91I can\x92t tell you what she thinks.\x92 Henry was downright angry now. \x91Oh, yes! It\x92s easy for you! You haven\x92t been through...\x92 His face seemed to be working. And his voice had a choke in it. \x91But how could a kid like you understand I How could you know the way you get tied up and... all the little things... My God, man! It hurts. Can you understand that. It\x92s tough.\x92 He subsided. Finally, after a long silence, he said huskily but quietly, with resignation, \x91You\x92d say I ought to go.\x92 Henry was silent. Mr Henderson got up. \x91I guess I know how to be a sport,\x92 he said. He went into the house, and in a few minutes returned with his suit-case. \x91It\x92s--it\x92s sorta like leaving things all at loose ends,\x92 he remarked. \x91But then--of course...\x92 He went down two or three steps; then paused and looked up at Henry, who had risen now. \x91You\x92--his voice was husky again--\x91you staying here?\x92 \x91No,\x92 said Henry; and walked a way up the street with him. Mr Henderson said, rather stiffly, that the hot spell really seemed to be over. Been fierce. Especially through Iowa and Missouri. No lake breeze, or anything like that. Muggy all the time. That was the thing here in Sunbury--the lake breeze.\x92 5 They were still in front of the Ames place. But Mildred had risen. They stood watching him as he came, carrying the hat. \x91Where on earth have you been?\x92 asked Corinne. Henry met with difficulty in replying. He was embarrassed, caught in an uprush of self-consciousness. He couldn\x92t see why there need be talk. He gave Humphrey his hat. \x91How\x92d you get this?\x92 \x91In there.\x92 \x91You went in?\x92 This from Mildred. He felt her eyes on him. \x91Yes.\x92 \x91But you--you must have...\x92 \x91He\x92s gone.\x92 \x91Gone!\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 \x91But where?\x92 \x91I don\x92t know.\x92 \x91What did you tell him?\x92 asked Corinne sharply\x92. \x91Nothing. I don\x92t think I did. Nothing much.\x92 \x91But what?\x92 \x91Well, he acted funny. I wouldn\x92t tell him where Mildred was. Then he asked why you didn\x92t come home and I said because he was there.\x92 Mildred and Corinne looked at each other. \x91But what made him go?\x92 asked Corinne. \x91I don\x92t know. He wanted to know what you wanted him to do, Mildred. Of course I couldn\x92t say anything to that. And then he said he guessed he knew how to be a sport, and went and got his suit-case.\x92 \x91Hope he had sense enough not to go to the hotel,\x92 Corinne mused, aloud. \x91They\x92d talk so.\x92 \x91There\x92s a train back to Chicago at two-something,\x92 said Humphrey. They moved slowly toward the house. At the steps they paused. The university clock struck two. They listened. The reverberations of the second stroke died out. The maple leaves overhead rustled softly. From the beach, a block away, came the continuous low sound of little waves on shelving sand. The great lake that washes and on occasions threatens the shore at Sunbury had woven, from Henry\x92s birth, a strand of colour in the fibre of his being. He felt the lake as deeply as he felt the maples and oaks of Sunbury; memories of its bars of crude\x92 wonderful colour at sunset and sunrise, of its soft mists, its yellow and black November storms, its reaches of glacier-like ice-hills in winter, of moonlit evenings with a girl on the beach when the romance of youth shimmered in boundless beautiful mystery before half-closed eyes--these were an ever-present element in the undefined, moody ebb and flow of impulse, memory, hope, desire and spasmodic self-restraint that Henry would have referred to, if at all, as his mind. \x91It\x92s late enough,\x92 said Corinne, with a little laugh. Mildred turned away, placed a tiny foot on the bottom step, sighed, then murmured, very low, \x91Hardly worth while going in.\x92 \x91Let\x92s not,\x92 muttered Humphrey. \x91Listen.\x92 Thus Corinne. She was leaning against the railing, with an extraordinarily graceful slouch. She had never looked so pretty, Henry thought. A little of the corner light reached her face, illuminating her velvet clear skin and shining on her blue black hair where it curved over her forehead. She made you think of health and of wild things. And she could, even at this time, earn her living. There was an offer now to tour the country forty weeks with a lyceum concert company. The letter had come to-day; Henry had seen it. She thought she wouldn\x92t accept. Her idea was another year to study, then two or three years abroad and, possibly, a start in the provincial opera companies of Italy, Austria, and Germany. Yes, she had character of the sort that looks coolly ahead and makes deliberate plans. Despite her wide, easy-smiling mouth and her great languorous black eyes and her lazy ways, eyen Henry could now see this strength in her face, in its solid, squared-up framework. More than any girl Henry had ever known she could do what she chose. Men pursued her, of course. All the time. There were certain extremely persistent ones. And it came quietly through, bit by bit, that she knew them pretty well, knocked around the city with them, as she liked. But now she had chosen himself. No doubt about it. She said:-- \x91Listen. Let\x92s go down to the shore and watch for the sunrise. We couldn\x92t sleep a wink after--after this--anyway.\x92 \x91Nobody\x92d ever know,\x92 breathed Mildred. Humphrey took her arm. They moved slowly down the walk toward the street. Corinne, still leaning there, looked at Henry. He reached toward her, but she evaded him and waltzed slowly away over the grass, humming a few bars of the _Myosotis_. Henry\x92s eyes followed her. He felt the throbbing again in his temples, and his cheeks burned. He compressed his lips. He moved after her. He was in a state of all but ungovernable excitement, but the elation of two hours back had gone, flattened out utterly. He felt deeply uncomfortable. It was the sort of ugly moment in which he couldn\x92t have faced himself in a looking-glass. For Henry had such moments, when, painfully bewildered by the forces that nature implants in the vigorously young, he loathed himself. Life opened, a black precipice, before him, yet Life, in other guise, drove him on. As if intent on his destruction. He hung back; let Corinne glide on just ahead of him, still slowing revolving, swaying, waltzing to the soft little tune she was so musically humming. He wanted to watch her; however great his discomfort of the spirit, to exult in her physical charm. On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant. But now he wasn\x92t stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived at an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly. The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other\x92s gaze--in the window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames\x92s horse block--kept coming up in his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm, but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he went back to Mildred\x92s house. He knew that love had come to them. He wondered, trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it would seem to live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon him.. Not since the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful business. This matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he hurried up to her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her. At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne sat in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to another breakwater. Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry\x92s arm. He was thinking, \x91Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it really. Ain\x92t a fellow\x92 in town that wouldn\x92t envy me.\x92 But gloom was settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought to be whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn\x92t think of any. He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away from her temples. He began humming: \x91I arise from dreams of thee.\x92 She picked it up, very softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo. His own voice died out. He couldn\x92t sing. He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. Now and then she hummed other songs--bits of Schumann and Franz. Schubert\x92s _Serenade_ she sang through. \x91Sing with me,\x92 she murmured. He shook his head. \x91Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I don\x92t.\x92 \x91Don\x92t I make you feel like singing, Henry?\x92 \x91Oh yes, sure!\x92 \x91You\x92re a moody boy, Henry.\x92 \x91Oh yes, I\x92m moody.\x92 She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. \x91I\x92m a fool,\x92 he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then kissed her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand slipped over his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck. Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes. 6 A faint light was creeping over the bowl-like sky. And a fainter colour was spreading upward from the eastern horizon. The thousands of night stars had disappeared, leaving only one, the great star of the morning. It sent out little points of light, like the Star of the East in Sunday school pictures. It seemed to stir with white incandescence. Henry straightened up; gently placed Corinne against the breakwater; covered his face. She considered him from under lowered eyelids. Her face was expressionless. She didn\x92t smile. And she wasn\x92t singing now. She smoothed out her skirt, rather deliberately and thoughtfully. \x91Think of it!\x92 Henry broke out with a shudder. \x91It\x92s a dreadful thing that\x92s happened!\x92 \x91It might be,\x92 said Corinne very quietly, \x91if Arthur didn\x92t have the sense to take that train.\x92 \x91And we\x92re sitting here as if----\x92 \x91Listen! What on earth made you go back to the house?\x92 \x91I can\x92t tell you. I don\x92t know. I _had_ to.\x92 \x91Hm! You certainly did it. You\x92re not lacking courage, Henry.\x92 He said nothing to this. He didn\x92t feel brave. \x91Mildred was foolish. She shouldn\x92t have let herself get so stirred up. She ought to have gone back.\x92 \x91How can you say that! Don\x92t you see that she _couldn\x92t_!\x92 \x91Yes, I saw that she couldn\x92t. But it was a mistake.\x92 Henry was up on his knees, now, digging sand and throwing it. \x91It was love,\x92 he said hotly--\x91real love.\x92 \x91It\x92s a wreck,\x92 said she. \x91It can\x92t be. If they love each other!\x92 \x91This town won\x92t care how much they love each other. And there are other things. Money.\x92 \x91Bah! What\x92s money!\x92 \x91It\x92s a lot. You\x92ve got to have it.\x92 \x91Haven\x92t you any ideals, Corinne?\x92 She reflected. Then said, \x91Of course.\x92 And added: \x91She had Arthur where she wanted him. That\x92s why he went away, of course. He thought she\x92d caught him. Now she\x92s lost her head and let him get away. Dished everything. No telling what he\x92ll do when he finds out.\x92 \x91He mustn\x92t find out.\x92 Henry was not aware of any inconsistency within himself. \x91He will if she\x92s going to lose her head like this. There are some things you have to stand in this world. One of the things Mildred had to stand was a husband.\x92 \x91But how could she go back to him--to-night--feeling this way?\x92 \x91She should have.\x92 \x91You\x92re cynical.\x92 \x91I\x92m practical. Do you want her to go through a divorce, and then marry Humphrey? That\x92ll take money. It\x92s a luxury. For rich folks.\x92 \x91Don\x92t say such things, Corinne!\x92 \x91Why not. She\x92s made the break with Arthur. Now the next thing\x92s got to happen. What\x92s it to be?\x92 Henry got to his feet. He gazed a long time at the morning star. The university clock struck three. Henry shivered.. \x91Come,\x92 he said. \x91Let\x92s get back.\x92 It didn\x92t occur to him to help her up. The four of them lingered a few moments at Mildred\x92s door. Humphrey finally led Mildred in. For a last goodnight, plainly. Corinne smiled at Henry. It was an odd, slightly twisted smile. \x91After all,\x92 she murmured, \x91there\x92s no good in taking things too seriously.\x92 He threw out his hands. \x91You think I\x92m hard,\x92 she said, still with that smile. \x91Don\x92t! Please!\x92 \x91Well--good-night. Or good-morning.\x92 She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. He returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward her, then sprang away and dropped her hand. \x91Why--Henry!\x92 \x91I\x92m sorry. I don\x92t know what\x92s the matter with me. I was looking at that star----\x92 \x91I saw you looking at it.\x92 \x91I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if there wasn\x92t any use trying to reach it. And then--oh, I don\x92t know--Mr Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and Mildred--the awful fix they\x92re in. And you and me--I just can\x92t tell you!\x92 \x91You\x92re telling me plainly enough,\x92 she said wearily. \x91Do you ever hate, yourself?\x92 She didn\x92t answer this. Or look up. \x91Did you ever feel that you might turn out just--oh well, no good? Mr Henderson made me think that.\x92 \x91He isn\x92t much good,\x92 said she. \x91As if your life wasn\x92t worth making anything out of? Your friends ashamed of you? They talk about me here now. And I haven\x92t been bad. Not yet. Just one or two little things.\x92 Her lips formed the words, in the dark, \x91You\x92re not bad.\x92 Then she said, rather sharply: \x91Don\x92t stand there looking like a whipped dog, Henry.\x92 \x91I\x92ll go,\x92 he said; and turned. \x91You re the strangest person I ever knew,\x92 she said. \x91Maybe you _are_ a genius. Considering that Mildred completely lost her nerve, your handling of Arthur came pretty near being it. I wonder.\x92 Humphrey and Mildred came out. She came straight to him; gave him both her hands. \x91You\x92ve settled everything for us. Humphrey, I want to kiss Henry. I\x92m going to.\x92 Henry received the kiss like an image. Then he and Humphrey went away together into the dawn. \x91No good going to the rooms now,\x92 Humphrey remarked. \x91Let\x92s walk the beach.\x92 Henry nodded dismally. 7 The sky out over the lake was a luminous vault of deep rose shading off into the palest pink. The flat surface of the water, as far as they could see, was like burnished metal. Henry flung out a trembling arm. \x91Look!\x92 he said huskily. \x91That star.\x92 It was still incandescent, still radiating its little points of light. \x91Hump,\x92 he said, a choke in his voice--\x91I\x92m shaken. I\x92m beginning life again to-night, to-day.\x92 \x91I\x92m shaken too, Hen. The real thing has come. At last. It\x92s got me. It\x92ll be a fight, of course. But we\x92re going through with it. I want you to come to know her better, Hen. Even you--you don\x92t know. She\x92s wonderful. She\x92s going to help with my work in the shop, help me do the real things, creative work, get away from grubbing jobs.\x92 It was a moment of flashing insight for Henry. He couldn\x92t reply; couldn\x92t even look at his friend. His misgivings were profound. Yet the thing was done. Humphrey\x92s life had taken irrevocably a new course. No good even wasting regrets on it. So he fell, in a tumbling rush of emotion, to talking about himself. \x91I\x92m beginning again. I--I let go a little. Hump, I can\x92t do it. It\x92s too strong for me. I go to pieces. You don\x92t know. I\x92ve got to fight--all the time. Do the things I used to do--make myself work hard, hard. Keep accounts. Every penny. Leave girls alone. It means grubbing. I can\x92t bear to think of it.\x92 He spread out his hands. \x91In some ways it seems to help to let go. You know--stirs me. Brings the Power. Makes me want to write, create things. But it\x92s too much like burning the candle at both ends.\x92 Humphrey got out his old cob pipe, and carefully scraped it. \x91That\x92s probably just what it is,\x92 he remarked. \x91Oh, Hump, what is it makes us feel this way! You know--girls, and all that.\x92 Humphrey lighted his pipe. \x91You don\x92t know how it makes me feel to see you and Mildred. Just the way she looks. And you. Corinne and I don\x92t look like that. We were flirting. I didn\x92t mean it. She didn\x92t, either. It\x92s been beastly. But still it didn\x92t seem beastly all the time.\x92 \x91It wasn\x92t,\x92 said Humphrey, between puffs. \x91Don\x92t be too hard on yourself. And you haven\x92t hurt Corinne. She likes you. But just the same, she\x92s only flirting. She\x92d never give up her ambitions for you.\x92 \x91There\x92s something I want to feel. Something wonderful. I\x92ve been thinking of it, looking at that star. I want to love like--like that. Or nothing.\x92 Humphrey leaned on the railing over the beach, and smoked reflectively. The rose tints were deepening into scarlet and gold. The star was fading. \x91Hen,\x92 said Humphrey, speaking out of a sober reverie, \x91I don\x92t know that I\x92ve ever seen anybody reach a star. Our lives, apparently, are passed right here on this earth.\x92 Henry couldn\x92t answer this. But he felt himself in opposition to it. His hands were clenched at his side. \x91I begin my life to-day,\x92 he thought. But back of this\x92 determination, like a dark current that flowed silently but irresistibly out of the mists of time into the mists of other time, he dimly, painfully knew that life, the life of this earth, was carrying him on. And on. As if no resolution mattered very much. As if you couldn\x92t help yourself, really. He set his mouth. And thrust out his chin a little. He had not read Henley\x92s _Invictus_. It would have helped him, could he have seen it just then. \x91Let\x92s walk,\x92 he said. They breakfasted at Stanley\x92s. Here there was a constant clattering of dishes and a smell of food. People drifted in and out--men who worked along Simpson Street, and a few family groups--said \x91Good-morning. Looks like a warm day.\x92 Picked their teeth. Paid their checks to Mrs Stanley at the front table, or had their meal tickets punched. They walked slowly up the street as far as the Sunbury House corner, and crossed over to the _Voice_ office. Each glanced soberly at the hotel as they passed. They went in through the railing that divided front and rear offices. Humphrey took off his coat and dropped into his swivel chair before the roll-top desk. Henry took off his and dropped on the kitchen chair before the littered pine table. Jim Smith, the foreman, came in, his bare arms elaborately tattooed, chewing tobacco, and told \x91a new one,\x92 sitting on the corner of Henry\x92s table. Henry sat there, pale of face, toying with a pencil, and wincing. After Jim had gone, Henry sat still, gazing at the pencil, wondering weakly if the rough stuff of life was too much for him. He glanced over toward the desk. Humphrey, pipe in mouth, was already at work. Hump had the gift of instant concentration. Even this morning, after all that had happened, he was hard at it. Though he had something to work for. A sob was near. Henry had to close his eyes for a moment. His sensitive lips quivered. Humphrey would be, seeing his Mildred again at the close of the day. Henry found himself entertaining the possibility of crawling shamefacedly around to Corinne. Then he sat up stiffly. Felt in one pocket after another until he found a little red account-book. He hadn\x92t made an entry for a week. Before Corinne came into his life he hadn\x92t missed an entry for nearly two years. He sat staring at it, pencil in hand. His mouth set again. He wrote:-- \x91Bkfst. Stanleys... 20c.\x92 He slipped the book into his pocket; compressed his lips for an instant; then reached for a wad of copy paper. And gave a little sigh of relief. It was to be a long, perhaps an endless battle with self. But he had started. V--TIGER, TIGER! 1 |Miss Amelia Dittenhoefer was a figure in Sunbury. She had taught two generations of its young in the old Filbert Avenue school. And during more than ten years, since relinquishing that task, she had supplied the \x91Society,\x92 \x91Church Doings,\x92 \x91Woman\x92s Realm,\x92 and \x91Personal Mention\x92 departments of the _Voice_ with their regular six to eight columns of news and gossip. And as several hundred Sunbury men and women had once been her boys and girls, this sort of personal news came to her from every side. Her \x91children,\x92 of whatever present age, accepted her as an institution, like the university building, General Grant, or Lake Michigan. She never had a desk in the _Voice_ office, but worked at home or moving briskly about the town. Home, to her, was the rather select, certainly high-priced boarding-house of Mrs Clark on Simpson Street, over by the lake, where she had lived, at this time, for twenty-one or twenty-two years. She was little, neat, precise, and doubtless (as I look back on those days) equipped for much more important work than any she ever found to do in Sunbury. But Woman\x92s sun had hardly begun to rise then. As Henry had been, at the age of six, one of her boys, and during the past two years had shared with her the reporting work of the _Voice_, it was not unnatural that she should stop him as he was hurrying, airily twirling his thin bamboo stick, over to Stanley\x92s restaurant. It was noontime. Simpson Street was quiet. They walked along past Donovan\x92s drug store and Jackson\x92s book store (formerly B. F. Jones\x92s) and turned the corner. Here, in front of an unfrequented photographer\x92s studio, Miss Dittenhoefer stated her problem. She looked, though her trim little person was erect as always, rather beaten down. \x91Mr Boice has taken half my work, Henry--\x93Church Doings\x94 and \x93Society.\x94 He sent me a note. I gather that you\x92re to do it.\x92 \x91Me?\x92 Henry spoke in honest amazement. \x91Doubtless. He\x92s cutting down expenses. I mind, of course, after all these years. I\x92ve worked very hard. And on the money side, I shall mind a little.\x92 \x91You don\x92t mean----\x92 \x91Oh, yes. Half the former wage. And they don\x92t pension old teachers in Sunbury. But this is what I want to tell you----\x92 \x91Oh, but Miss Dittenhoefer, I don\x92t----\x92 \x91Never mind, Henry; it\x92s done. Of course I shouldn\x92t have said as much as this. Though perhaps I had to say it to somebody. Forget what you can of it. But now--I wanted to give you this list. There\x92s a good lot of society for summer. Never knew the old town to be so gay. Two or three things in South Sunbury that are important. They feel that we\x92ve been slighting them down there this year. I\x92ve noted everything down. And I\x92ve written the church societies, asking them to send announcements direct to the office after this.\x92 \x91I don\x92t want your work,\x92 said Henry, colouring up. \x91It ain\x92t--isn\x92t--square.\x92 \x91But it\x92s business, Henry. Mr. Boice explained that in his note. You\x92ll find I\x92ve written everything out in detail--all my plans and the right ladies to see. Good-bye now.\x92 Henry, pained, unable to believe that Miss Dittenhoefer\x92s day could pass so abruptly, walked moodily back to Stanley\x92s and, as usual, bolted his lunch. The unkindness to Miss Dittenhoefer directly affected himself. It meant still more of the routine desk-work and more running around town. Then, slowly, as he sat there staring at the pink mosquito-bar that was gathered round the chandelier, his eyes filled. It was hard to believe that even Mr Boice could do a thing like that to Miss Dittenhoefer. Coolly cutting her pay in half! It seemed to Henry wanton cruelty. It suggested to his sensitive mind other tales of cruelty--tales of the boys who had gone into Chicago wholesale houses for their training and had found their fresh young dream-ideals harshly used in the desperate struggle of business. Henry, I am certain, thought of Mr Boice at this moment with about as much sympathy as a native of a jungle village might feel for a man-eating tiger. That look about Miss Dittenhoefer\x92s mouth when she smiled! It was a world, this of placid-appearing Sunbury and the big city, just below the town line, in which men fought each other to the death, in which young boys were hardened and coarsened and taught to kill or be killed, in which women were tortured by hard masters until their souls cried out. Boice, I am sure, sensed nothing of this somewhat morbid hostility. No; until Robert A. McGibbon turned up in Sunbury, Mr Boice had some reason to feel settled and complacent in his years. His private funds were secure in his wife\x92s name. And he had every reason to believe that, before many months more, it would be his privilege and pleasure to run McGibbon out of town for good. If the matter of Miss Dittenhoefer should, for a little while, stir up sentimental criticism, why--well, it was business. Sound business. And you couldn\x92t go back of sound business. Henry sighed, got slowly up, had his meal ticket punched at the desk by Mrs Stanley, went back to the office. 2 The sunny, listless July day was at its lowest ebb--when men who had the time dawdled and smoked late over their lunch, when ladies took naps. Flies crawled languidly about the speckled walls of the _Voice_ office. Outside the screen door and the plate-glass front window, the hot air, rising from the cement sidewalk, quivered so that the yellow outlines of the Sunbury House across the street wavered unstably, and the dusty trees over there wavered, and the men sitting coatless, suspendered, in the yellow rocking chairs on the long veranda, wavered. Through the open press-room door came the sound of one small job-press rumbling at a handbill job; the other presses were still. The compositors worked or idled without talking. Here in the office, Henry, tipped back in his kitchen chair before the inkstained, cluttered pine table by the end wall, coat off, limp wet handkerchief tucked carefully around his neck inside the collar, chewed a pencil, gazing now at the little pile of blank copy paper before him, now at a discouraged fly on the wall. Gradually the fly took on a perverse interest among his wandering, unhappy thoughts. Prompted, doubtless, by a sense of inner demoralisation that was now close to recklessness, he reached for a pen, filled it with ink, and shot a scattering volley at the slow-moving insect. At the roll-top desk by the press-room door, Humphrey Weaver, also coatless, cob pipe in mouth, long lean face wrinkled in the effort to keep his usually docile mind on its task, elbow on desk and long fingers spread through damp hair, was correcting proof. Mr Boice\x92s desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr Boice could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour of others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry\x92s breast a rage that was none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of thing, he felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to stand--the wall against which you must beat your head year after year. Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend. \x91Hump,\x92 he said, \x91I--I know you wouldn\x92t think I had much to do--I mean the way you get work done--I don\x92t know what it is--but I wish I could see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I\x92m no good, but----\x92 \x91I wouldn\x92t say that.\x92 Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back in his swivel chair. \x91I could never have written that picnic story. Never in the world. We\x92re different, that\x92s all. You\x92re a racer; I\x92m a work-horse. I don\x92t know just what it\x92s coming to. He isn\x92t handling you right.\x92 \x91That\x92s it!\x92 Henry cried, softly, eagerly. \x91He _isn\x92t!_\x92 \x91I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.\x92 Henry\x92s head bowed in assent. \x91I didn\x92t have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.\x92 He picked up his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. \x91There,\x92 he remarked unexpectedly, \x91is a pretty girl!\x92 Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. \x91Where?\x92 he asked, then discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames. She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good, she caused a quickening of his pulse. She _was_ pretty--rather slender, in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual amount of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door, was a bright, almost eager smile. It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry\x92s susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily back to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at his little moustache. \x91You haven\x92t told me what I\x92m to do about it, Hump. This society thing really stumps me.\x92 \x91I haven\x92t known quite what to say. That\x92s all, Hen. The old man is riding you, of course. I didn\x92t think, when he raised you to twelve a week, that he\x92d just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He\x92s a crafty old duck. Very, very crafty--Cheese it; here he comes!\x92 The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair. \x91Henry!\x92 called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice. The young man quivered slightly, but sat motionless. \x91Henry!\x92 came the husky voice again. There could be no pretending not to hear. Henry went over there. Mr Boice sat still--he could; do that--great hands resting on his barrel-like thighs. \x91I am rearranging the work of the paper--\x92 he began. \x91Yes,\x92 muttered Henry, not without sullenness; \x91I know.\x92 \x91Oh, you know!\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 \x91There\x92s a little more for you to do. You\x92ll have to get it cleaned up well ahead of time this week. Thursday is the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of Sunbury. You\x92ll have to cover that. Take down what you can of the speeches.\x92 That seemed to be all. Henry moved slowly back to the table. After a little shuffling about of the papers on his desk, Mr Boice moved heavily out and headed toward the post-office. Then, and not before, Henry rummaged under a pile of exchanges at the rear of the table until he found a book. This he held close to his body, where it would not be seen should Humphrey turn unexpectedly. The book was entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. Opposite the title page was a half-tone reproduction of the author--a face with a huge moustache and intensely knit brows. Henry studied it, speculating in a sort of despair as to whether he could ever bring himself to look like that. He knit his own brows. His hand strayed again to his own downy moustache. He turned the pages. Read a sentence here and there. The book, though divided under various chapter headings, was really made up of hundreds of more or less pithy little paragraphs. These paragraphs--their substance mainly a rehandling of the work of Samuel Smiles, James Parton, and the Christian and Mental Scientists (though Henry didn\x92t know this)--might easily have been shuffled about and arranged in other sequence, so little continuity of thought did they represent. One paragraph ran:-- The express train of Opportunity stops but once at your station. If you miss it, it will never again matter that you almost caught it. Another was-- Practise concentration. Fix your mind on the job in hand. Aim to do it a little better than such a job was ever done before. It is related of Thomas Alva Edison that, at the early age of seven, he---- And this:-- Oh, how many a young man, standing at the parting of life\x92s main roads, has lost for ever the golden opportunity because he stopped to light a cigarette!\x92 Henry replaced the book under the pile of exchanges. A copy of last week\x92s _Voice_ lay there. It was the first time he had let an issue of the paper go by without reading and re-reading every line of his own work. But he had, during these five days, passed through one of life\x92s great revolutions. Besides, he had been put on a salary basis. When on space-rates, it had been necessary to cut everything out and paste it up into a \x91string\x92 for measurement. It came to him now, with a warm little uprush of memory, that the best piece of writing he had ever done would be in this issue. He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three that wasn\x92t given up to advertisements. This was better than working. Besides, he ought to go over it. He settled down to it. 3 The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly. Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week\x92s _Voice_ with hands that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more startling to himself than to Humphrey. \x91What is it?\x92 asked the editor. Henry stared at the outspread paper. \x91This!\x92 he got out. \x91This--this!\x92 \x91What\x92s the matter, Hen?\x92 \x91Don\x92t you _know?_\x92 \x91Oh, your picnic story! Yes--but--what on earth is the matter with you?\x92 \x91You _know_, Hump! You never told me!\x92 \x91You mean the cuts?\x92 \x91Oh--yes!\x92 This \x91Oh\x92 was a moan of anguish. \x91Good heavens, Hen--you didn\x92t for a minute think we could print it as you wrote it?\x92 Henry\x92s facial muscles moved, but he got no words out. Humphrey, touched, went on. \x91I don\x92t mind telling you--between ourselves--that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best bit of descriptive writing I\x92ve seen this year. But you wrote the real story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they are--every wart. It\x92s a savage picture. Why, we\x92d have dropped seventy per cent, of our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer little picture of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand---- Why, boy, that\x92s enough to bust open the town! With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the town money! Gee!\x92 Henry seemed hardly to hear this. \x91Who--who re-wrote it?\x92 \x91I did some. The old man polished it off himself.\x92 \x91It\x92s ruined!\x92 \x91Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That\x92s something.\x92 \x91You don\x92t understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the truth.\x92 \x91That\x92s why.\x92 \x91Then they don\x92t want the truth?\x92 \x91Good lord--no!\x92 Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up. \x91What\x92s become of it--the piece I wrote?\x92 \x91Well, Hen--I didn\x92t feel that we had a right to destroy the thing. Too dam good! In a sense, it\x92s the old man\x92s property; in another sense, it\x92s yours----\x92 \x91It\x92s mine!\x92 \x91In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn\x92t know.\x92 \x91Where\x92s the copy?\x92 \x91Here in my desk.\x92 \x91Give it to me!\x92 \x91Just hold your horses a minute, Hen----\x92 \x91You give it----\x92 Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the typewritten manuscript. \x91Who made this?\x92 \x91Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.\x92 \x91How much did it cost?\x92 \x91Oh, see here, Hen--I won\x92t talk to you! Not till you get over this excitement.\x92 \x91I\x92m not excited. Or, at least----\x92 Humphrey gave a shrug. Henry, gripping the roll of manuscript, started out. \x91Wait a minute, Hen! What do you think you\x92re going to do?\x92 \x91What do you s\x92pose? Only one thing I _can_ do!\x92 \x91Going after the old man?\x92 \x91Of course! You would yourself, if----\x92 \x91No, I wouldn\x92t. Not in any such rush as that. It\x92s upsetting to have your good work pawed over and cut to pieces, but twelve a week is----\x92 \x91Oh, Hump, it\x92s everything! He\x92s made it impossible for me. I could stand some of it, but not all this. He ain\x92t fair! He _wants_ to make it hard for me! He\x92s just thinking up ways to be mean. And he\x92s spoiled my work--best thing I\x92ve ever done in my life! And now people will never know how well I can write.\x92 \x91Oh, yes, they will!\x92 \x91No, they won\x92t. I\x92ll never feel just that way again. It\x92s a feeling that comes. And then it goes. You can\x92t do anything about it. It was Corinne and the way I felt about her. And a lot o\x92 things. Seemed to make me different. Lifted me up. I was red-hot.\x92 He reached out and struck the paper from the table to the floor. \x91You bet I\x92ll go to old Boice! \x91I\x92ll tell him a thing or two I He\x92ll know something\x92s happened before he gets through with me. I\x92ve had something to say to him for a good while. Going to say it now. Guess he don\x92t know I\x92ll be twenty-one in November. Have a little money then. He can\x92t put it over me. I\x92ll buy his old paper. Or start another one. I\x92ll make the town too hot for him. Thinks he owns all Sunbury. But he _don\x92t!_\x92 \x91Hen,\x92 said Humphrey bravely, when the irate youth paused for breath, \x91you simply must not try to talk to him while you\x92re mad as this.\x92 \x91But don\x92t you see, Hump,\x92 cried Henry, his face working with vexation, tears close to his eyes; \x91it\x92s just the time! When I\x92m mad. If I wait, I\x92ll never say a word.\x92 He rolled the manuscript tightly in his hand, bit his lip, then abruptly rushed out. \x91Look here,\x92 cried Humphrey. \x91Don\x92t you go showing that----\x92 But the only reply was the noisy slam of the screen door. Face set, eyes wild behind their glasses, Henry hurried down Simpson Street toward the post-office. Miss Hemple, at the money-order window, said that Mr Boice was having a talk with Mr Waterhouse in the back office and wasn\x92t to be disturbed. Henry turned away. For a little time he studied the weather-chart hanging on the wall. He went to the wide front window and gazed out on the street. His determination was already oozing away. He found himself slouching and straightened up. Repeatedly he had to do this. Four times he went back to the money-order window; four times Miss Hemple smiled and shook her head. Martha Caldwell walked by with the two Smith girls. He thought she saw him. If so, she carefully avoided a direct glance. They still weren\x92t speaking. At least, Martha wasn\x92t. And to think that during three long years, except for another episode now and than, she had been his girl! Heigh-ho! No more girls! He was through! The Ames\x92s carriage rolled fly. Mary Ames was in it. And--apparently, unmistakably--the new girl. The girl of the Sunbury House veranda. She was chatting brightly. She _was_ pretty. He turned mournfully away. She was not for him. Once it might have been possible--back in his gay big days. But not now. Not now. He approached the window for the sixth time. For the sixth time, Miss Hemple shook her head. He wandered out to the door. His chance had passed. If the old man should, at this moment, and alone, come walking out, he would say meekly, \x91Good-afternoon, Mr Boice,\x92 and hurry away. He would even try to look busy and earnest. There was shame in the thought. His mouth was drooping at the corners. All of him--body, mind, spirit--was sagging now. He moved, slowly down toward the tracks, entered the little lunch-counter place there and ate a thick piece of lemon-meringue pie. Which was further weakness. He knew it. It completed his depression. He felt that he must think. He ordered another piece of pie. He wished he hadn\x92t said so much to Humphrey. Would he ever learn to control the spoken word? Probably not. He sighed. And ate. He couldn\x92t very well go back to the office. Not like this--in defeat. All that work, too I Life, work, friendship, all the realities seemed to be slipping from his grasp. His thoughts were drifting off into a haze. It was an old familiar mood. It had come often during his teens. Not so much lately; but he was as helpless before it as he had been at eighteen, when he finally drifted aimlessly out of his class at the high school. In those days, it had been his habit to wander along the beach, sit on a breakwater, let life and love and duty drift by beyond his reach. Thither he headed now by a back street. Too many people he knew along Simpson Street. Besides, he might be thrown face to face with the old man. At the corner of Filbert Avenue he met the editor and proprietor of the _Gleaner_. He inclined his head with unconscious severity and would have passed on. But Robert A. McGibbon came to a halt, smiled in a thin strained fashion, and glanced curiously from Henry\x92s face to the tightly rolled manuscript in his hand and back to the face. \x91Well,\x92 he remarked, \x91how\x92s things?\x92 Henry wanted to be let alone. But he had never deliberately snubbed anybody in his life. He couldn\x92t. So he, too, came to a stop. \x91Oh, pretty good,\x92 he replied. 4 He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range of vision. \x91Things going well over at the _Voice_ office?\x92 Henry was silent. He couldn\x92t lie. \x91Not going so well, eh? That\x92s too bad. Anything special up?\x92 \x91No,\x92 said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; \x91nothing special.\x92 \x91What you doing now? Anything much?\x92 Henry shook his head. \x91Taking a little walk, perhaps.\x92 \x91Why--yes.\x92 \x91Mind if I walk along with you?\x92 \x91Why--no.\x92 They fell into step. \x91Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in your work over there.\x92 Henry compressed his lips. \x91Did you write the Business Men\x92s Picnic story?\x92 Henry was silent. \x91Pretty fair job, I thought.\x92 \x91It was terrible!\x92 \x91Oh, no--not terrible. You\x92re too hard on yourself.\x92 \x91I\x92m not hard on myself. It\x92s _his_ fault. He spoiled it.\x92 \x91Who--Boice? I shouldn\x92t wonder. He could spoil _The New York Sun_ in two days, with just a little rope.\x92 \x91He tore it all to pieces. I\x92ve got the real story here. I couldn\x92t let you see it, of course.\x92 McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper. \x91You like to write, don\x92t you?\x92 Henry nodded shortly. \x91Boice won\x92t let you do it, I suppose.\x92 Henry shook his head. \x91He wouldn\x92t. You know, there isn\x92t really any reason why a country paper shouldn\x92t be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.\x92 Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry\x92s thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him. \x91I\x92ve got a little money,\x92 he said. McGibbon smiled. \x91Well, it has its uses.\x92 \x91I haven\x92t quite got it. I get the interest. And they\x92ll have to give me all of it in November. The seventh. I\x92ll be twenty-one then.\x92 These words seemed to reassure. Henry. \x91Yes; I\x92ll be twenty-one. It\x92s quite a little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother\x92s.\x92 \x91It\x92s not to be sneezed at,\x92 said McGibbon reflectively. \x91If I had four thousand right now--or one thousand, for that matter--I could make sure of turning my corner and landing the old _Gleaner_ on Easy Street. I\x92ve had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight months. But I\x92m gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and I\x92ll nail that gang.\x92 \x91You know\x92--McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a cigar--\x91it takes money to make money.\x92 \x91Oh, yes--of course,\x92 said Henry. \x91A thousand dollars now on the _Gleaner_ would be worth ten thousand ten years from now.\x92 He smoked thoughtfully. \x91I\x92ve been watching you, Calverly. And if it wasn\x92t so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. He\x92s got a jewel in you, and he doesn\x92t know it. I suppose he keeps you grinding--correcting proof, running around----\x92 \x91Oh, you\x92ve no idea!\x92 Henry burst out. \x91Everything! Just an awful grind! And now he expects me to cover all the \x93Society\x94 and \x93Church Doings.\x94\x92 \x91What! How\x92s that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?\x92 Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded. \x91He\x92s piling it all on me, and I won\x92t stand for it. It ain\x92t right! It \x91ain\x92t fair! And you bet your life he\x92s going to hear a few things from me before this day\x92s much older! I\x92m going to tell him a thing or two!\x92 \x91That\x92s right!\x92 said McGibbon. \x91He won\x92t respect you any the less for it.\x92 A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set teeth, staring out at the horizon. \x91I\x92m going to tell you something, Calverly. And it\x92s because I feel that you and I are going to be friends. I\x92ve known about you, of course. I know you can write. You\x92d do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we\x92re going to be friends. You\x92ve confided in me. I\x92m going to confide in you.\x92 He paused, blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, \x91I know a little about that story you wrote.\x92 \x91_You_ do!\x92 McGibbon slowly nodded. \x91But how?\x92 \x91You must remember, Calverly, that I\x92m not like these small-town folks around here. I\x92ve worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or two.\x92 \x91I\x92ve been in New York,\x92 said Henry. \x91Great town! But I don\x92t spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines out all over town. There\x92s mighty little going on that I don\x92t know.\x92 \x91You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.\x92 McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:-- \x91I\x92ve nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.\x92 \x91But I don\x92t see how you could know about----\x92 \x91I told you I was going to confide in you. It\x92s simple enough. Gert Wombast let her sister read it--the one that works at the library. Swore her to secrecy. And--well, I board at the Wombasts\x92--Look here, Calverly: you\x92d better let me read it.\x92 Henry promptly surrendered it. McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his hands. \x91Of course,\x92 he said, \x91this ain\x92t really a finished thing, you understand. It\x92s just as I wrote it off--fast, you know--and I haven\x92t had a chance to correct it or----\x92 McGibbon raised his hand. \x91No, Calverly--none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice couldn\x92t print it. Never in the world. But it\x92s sweet stuff. It\x92s a perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two old crooks behind the lemonade stand--you\x92ve opened a jack-pot there. If you only knew it, son, that\x92s evidence. Evidence! You walked right into it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little purse and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he\x92s the most popular man in Sunbury? Rot! Because they\x92re helping him pay back. Making the town help.\x92 \x91Oh, do you really think----\x92 \x91\x93Think?\x94 I know. This completes the picture. Tell me--what is Boice paying you?\x92 \x91Twelve a week, now.\x92 \x91Hm! That\x92s quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, though, if--see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a thousand of your money free and investing in the _Gleaner?_ Now, wait! I want to put this thing before you. It\x92s the turning-point. If we act without delay, we\x92ve got \x91em. We\x92ve got everything. We own the town. Here we are! The _Gleaner_ is just at the edge of success. I take you over from the _Voice_ at the same salary--twelve a week. I\x92ll give you lots of rope. I won\x92t expect routine from you. I\x92ll expect genius. Stuff like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel you can\x92t help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie Waterhouse and break him. I\x92ll finish Boice and Weston at the same time. Show up the whole outfit! Whatever\x92ll be left of the _Voice_ by that time, Boice can have and welcome. The _Gleaner_ will be the only paper in Sunbury.\x92 \x91My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother\x92s estate.\x92 \x91You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right through.\x92 \x91I\x92ll see him to-morrow.\x92 \x91Couldn\x92t you find him to-night?\x92 5 Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long ride--first by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car through miles upon miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick tenements. You breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all the way. Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little gleam in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the _Gleaner_ as an eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who had worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial prosperity. His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed. His gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary training for some more important period of existence after death. He didn\x92t smoke or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who indulged in such practices. He was an officer of several organisations aiming at civic and social reform. Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what he called \x91putting the thing right end to.\x92 It was not unnatural, therefore, that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression when Henry began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of fumbling at his moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying \x91There\x92s a little chance come up--oh, nothing much, of course--for me to make a little money, sort of on the side--and you see I\x92ll be twenty-one in November; so it\x92s just a matter of three or four months, anyway--and I was figuring--oh, just talking the thing over----\x92 His voice trailed off into a mumble. \x91If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,\x92 said his uncle sharply, \x91perhaps I could make out what you\x92re trying to say.\x92 Henry sat up with a jerk. \x91Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there\x92s a fellow bought the old Sunbury _Gleaner_ and he\x92s awfully smart--got his training in New York--and he\x92s brought the paper already--why, it ain\x92t eight months!--to where he\x92s right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The _Voice_ is a rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can\x92t work for old Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he\x92d just give me half a chance to do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this----\x92 \x91Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your principal?\x92 \x91Why--well, yes, if----\x92 \x91Most certainly not!\x92 \x91But, you see, it\x92s so close to November seventh, anyway, that I thought----\x92 \x91You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close out the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand you the principal in cash?\x92 Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle Arthur\x92s obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise of a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then, almost in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry\x92s eyes blazed. \x91You mean to say----\x92 he began, shouting. \x91I mean to say that I haven\x92t the slightest intention of letting you squander the money your mother so painfully--\x92 \x91That\x92s my money!\x92 \x91But I\x92m your uncle and your guardian----\x92 \x91You needn\x92t think you\x92re going to keep that one minute after November seventh!\x92 \x91I will use my judgment. I won\x92t be dictated to by a boy who----\x92 \x91But you gotta!\x92 \x91I have not got to!\x92 \x91I won\x92t stand for----\x92 \x91Henry, I won\x92t have such talk here. I think you had better go.\x92 Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets that swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the smells, to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur\x92s threat to hold the money after the seventh of November was a distinct point. \x91In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations are bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously honest of men, but----\x92 \x91He has a bad eye,\x92 Henry put in. \x91I don\x92t doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you--never forget this--a man who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is never to be trusted.\x92 \x91But what can I do?\x92 \x91Do? Everything! Just what I\x92m doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one thing--insist on a full statement.\x92 \x91They framed a letter--or McGibbon framed it--demanding an accounting, \x91in order that further legal measures may not become necessary.\x92 McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning, registered, and with a special-delivery stamp. \x91Later, they decided to add emphasis by means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the letter. Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark living-room and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth sitting stiffly on a window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously, hands clasped. \x91Well, what on earth?\x92 said he, in mild surprise. \x91Oh, Hump, I\x92ve wondered what you\x92d think--leaving you in the lurch with all that work! Humphrey threw out a lean hand. \x91I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie Wombast is usually available---- Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you tell him what\x92s what?\x92 Henry\x92s burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly--so suddenly that Humphrey himself started--he sprang up, cried out; \x91No! No! No!\x92 and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him. Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe. That \x91No! No! No!\x92 still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain. Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces. \x91Must be fierce,\x92 he thought. \x91But it works up as well as down. Runs to extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he\x92s got it--that\x92s all. And he\x92s only a kid. Thing to do\x92s to stand by and try to steady him up a little when he comes out of it.\x92 And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed. 6 At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had flitted back and forth between McGibbon\x92s rear office and the telegraph office in the \x91depot.\x92 At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by three o\x92clock. An ultimatum. The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five minutes past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle\x92s Chicago office. He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the concern on Henry\x92s face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of Uncle Arthur, was with him. McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of the elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building. Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in with deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything but airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache. \x91Sit down,\x92 said Uncle Arthur. Henry sat down. Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately laid them before his nephew. \x91There,\x92 he said, \x91is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of one bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day\x92s quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.\x92 He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up the cheque, fingered it, laid it down again. \x91I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused feelings. \x91I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.\x92 He indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. \x91And I won\x92t have my character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice you may be taking.\x92 \x91But--but he\x92s _not_ a cheap scoundrel!\x92 Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes in him if he stayed here much longer. \x91You\x92re hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You\x92re not fair I\x92m _not_ going to lose----\x92 The older man abruptly got up. \x91If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist on a note from this man--a demand note, or, at the very outside, a three-months\x92 one. Don\x92t put money unsecured into a weak business. Make it a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry, that is all. I really don\x92t care to talk to you further. Henry stood still. His uncle turned brusquely away. \x91But--but--\x92 Henry said unsteadily, \x91Uncle Arthur--really! Money isn\x92t everything!\x92 His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought merely raised his eyebrows again. And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always to stand out with particular vividness in Henry\x92s memory of the scene. He turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle\x92s voice, saying, with a rasp:-- \x91You have forgotten the cheque, Henry\x92 And he had to go back for it. 7 One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon. \x91I shall want your note,\x92 he said. McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window. Then, a moment later, he replied:-- \x91Sure! Of course! It\x92s just as I told you--always watch a man who hesitates a minute in money matters.\x92 \x91Three months,\x92 said Henry. \x91And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,\x92 said McGibbon. At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, knit his brows, and said:-- \x91I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn\x92t it? Or three?\x92 \x91Oh, shucks! Don\x92t think of that!\x92 \x91Was it two or three?\x92 \x91Well--if you really--two.\x92 Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book. \x91What\x92s that?\x92 asked McGibbon. \x91Keep accounts?\x92 \x91Oh, yes,\x92 Henry replied; \x91I\x92m very careful about money.\x92 \x91It\x92s a good way to be,\x92 said McGibbon. The _Gleaner_ office was over Hemple\x92s meat-market on Simpson Street, up a long flight of stairs. Here they paused. \x91Come up,\x92 said McGibbon jovially, \x91and pick out the place for your desk.\x92 \x91No,\x92 said Henry; \x91not now. Got to hurry. But I\x92ll be right over.\x92 He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o\x92clock, and Mr Boice might be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the cheque still in his pocket at the moment. His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing. \x91Say!\x92 he cried abruptly. \x91Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer----\x92 Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now took on some of that fire. \x91Great!\x92 he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already torn away, almost running. He rushed past the _Gleaner_ office without a glance. It suddenly didn\x92t matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to Charlie Waterhouse\x92s, even to Mr Weston\x92s. The Power was on him! Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile of the _Congressional Record_ and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his thick gray hair could be seen. Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey\x92s eyes on him. He heard old Boice move. Then came the husky voice. \x91Henry!\x92 He went on tying the parcel. \x91Henry--come here!\x92 He turned to his friend. \x91Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.\x92 Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there. \x91Where\x92ve you been?\x92 asked Mr Boice. \x91Been attending to my own affairs.\x92 \x91How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of----\x92 \x91I haven\x92t any work here.\x92 \x91Oh, you haven\x92t?\x92 \x91No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don\x92t want it. Wouldn\x92t take it as a gift.\x92 His voice was rising. He could feel Humphrey\x92s eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two or three compositors crowding pip behind him. \x91Not as a gift. It\x92s dirty money. I\x92m through with you. You and your crooked crowd!\x92 \x91Oh, you are?\x92 \x91Yes. Through with you. I\x92m on a decent paper now. A paper that ain\x92t afraid to print the truth.\x92 Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making little sounds.\x92 \x91Mmm!\x92 he remarked. \x91Hmm! Ump! Mmm!\x92 Then he said, \x91Meaning the _Gleaner_, I presume.\x92 \x91Meaning the _Gleaner_.\x92 \x91I suppose you know that McGibbon\x92s slated to fail within the month. He can\x92t so much as meet his pay-roll.\x92 \x91I know more\x92n that!\x92 cried Henry, laughing nervously. \x91I know he\x92s got money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer\x92s quitting you this week, too. She\x92s enthusiastic about us. I\x92ve just seen her. We\x92re going to have a big property there. We\x92ll buy you out one o\x92 these days for a song. Then it\x92ll be the _Gleaner and Voice_. See? But, first, we\x92re going to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and that-old whited sepulchre in the bank! I\x92ll show you you can\x92t fool with me!\x92 It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had thought up something better and rehearsed it. Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And his heart bounded. \x91He\x92s afraid of me!\x92 ran his thoughts. \x91I\x92ve licked him!\x92 It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out. Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn\x92t do. He was a business man now. With investments. He mustn\x92t go grinning down Simpson Street. But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once. Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run around through the alley. He wrung Henry\x92s hand. \x91Great!\x92 he cried. \x91Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of a story. Maybe you\x92ve heard this one. If you have, just----\x92 A hand fell on Henry\x92s shoulder. It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. His face wrinkled into a grin. \x91My boy,\x92 he said, \x91right here and now I thank you for the joy you\x92ve brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully impossible. It was great.\x92 \x91Well,\x92 cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in his voice, \x91I said it!\x92 \x91Oh, you said it\x92 cried Humphrey. Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, humming the wedding-march from _Lohengrin_ to the familiar words:-- Here comes the bride-- Get on to her stride! --he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a thousand. Back in the old _Voice_ office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds. I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular incident. He couldn\x92t know that it is as well to face a tigress as an artist whose mental offspring you have injured. No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn\x92t know that Henry, the drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two quite different persons. In Mr Boice\x92s familiar circles they played duplicate whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with the mysteries of dual personality such as appear in the case of any genius, great or small. Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake or his works) did the immortal line come to mind;-- Did He who made the lamb make thee? Mr Boice was obliged to give it up. VI--ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET 1 |Elberforce Jenkins was the most accomplished very young man-about-town in Sunbury. He appeared to have, even at twenty-one, the bachelor gift. He danced well. His golf was more than promising. He had lately taken up polo with the Dexter Smith boys and young de Casselles. He owned two polo ponies, a schooled riding horse, and a carriage team which he drove to a high cart. His allowance from his father by far overcame the weakness of his salary (he was with his brother, Jefferson, in a bond house on La Salle Street). His aptitude at small talk amounted to a gift. He liked, inevitably, the play that was popular and (though he read little) the novel that was popular. His taste in girls pointed him unerringly toward the most desirable among the newest. He and Henry had been together in high school (Sunbury was democratic then). They had played together in the football team. They had--during one hectic month--been rivals for the hand of Ernestine Lambert. In that instance, in so far as success had come, it had come to Henry. But those were Henry\x92s big days, when he was directing _Iolanthe_, the town at his feet. Life, these two years, had flowed swiftly on. The long dangling figure of Elbow Jenkins had filled out. His crude boyishness had given way to a smiling reserve. He was a young man of the world--self-assured, never indiscreet of tongue, always well-mannered, never individual or interesting. While Henry still worked on Simpson Street. He hadn\x92t struck his gait. He was--if you bothered, these days, to think about him--a little queer. He wore that small moustache and a heavy cord hanging from his nose-glasses, and dressed a thought too conspicuously. As if impelled by some inner urge to assert a personality that might otherwise be overlooked.... As I glance back upon the Henry of this period, it seems to me that there was more than a touch of pathos about that moustache. It was such a soft little thing. He fussed with it so much, and kept trying to twist it up at the ends. He didn\x92t seem to know that they weren\x92t twisting moustaches up at the ends that year. In fact, I think he lacked almost utterly the gift of conformity which was the strongest, element in Elbow Jenkins\x92s nature. And he never acquired it. In education, in work and preparation for life, he went it alone, stumbling, blundering, doing apparently stupid things, acting from baffling obscure motives, then suddenly coming through with an unexpected flash of insight and power. From the period of Ernestine Lambert to the time of the present story Elbow Jenkins had been on Henry\x92s nerves. Whenever they met, that is; or when Henry saw him driving the newest, prettiest, best-dressed girl about in his cart. Two years earlier he would have had two ponies hitched tandem. But now, a little older, less willing to be conspicuous except in strict conformity with the conventions, he drove his carefully matched team side by side. His scat, his hold of the reins, the very turning-back of his tan gloves, all were correct. These, indeed, were details in the problem of living and moving about with success among one\x92s fellows that Elberforce Jenkins regarded as really important. Like one\x92s stance at golf, and cultivating the favour of men who could be influential in a business or social way. Yes, Elbow was on Henry\x92s nerves. But Elbow had long since forgotten Henry, except for a chance nod now and then. And occasionally a moment\x92s annoyance that Henry should insist on keeping alive a nickname that had with years and the beginnings of dignity become undesirable. 2 The blow fell on Henry at half-past five on the Tuesday. I mark the time thus precisely because it perhaps adds a touch of interest to the consideration of what happened between then and Friday night, when McGibbon first saw what he had done. Of the importance of the blow in Henry\x92s life there is no doubt. It turned him sharply Not until he was approaching middle life could he look back on the occasion without wincing. And while wincing, he would say that it was what he had needed. Plainly. That it made a man of him, or started the process. As to that, I can\x92t say. Perhaps it did. Life is not so simple as Henry had been taught it was. I am fatalist enough to believe that Henry would have become what he was to become in any event, because it was in him. I doubt if he could have been given any other direction. Though of course he might have gone under simply through a failure to get aroused. Something had to start him, of course. The practical difficulty with Henry\x92s life was, of course, that he was strong. He didn\x92t know this himself. He thought he was weak. Some who observed him thought the same. There were reasons enough. But Mildred always declared flatly that he was a genius, that he was too good for Sunbury, against the smugness of which community she was inclined to rail. A debate on this point between Mrs Henderson and, say, William F. Donovan, the drug store man, would have been interesting. Mr Donovan\x92s judgments of human character were those of Simpson Street. I say Henry was strong, because I can\x92t interpret his rugged nonconformity in any other way. A weaker lad would long since have given up, gone into Smith Brothers\x92 wholesale, taken his spiritual beating and fallen into step with his generation. But Henry\x92s resistance was so strong and so deep that he didn\x92t even know he was resisting. He was doing the only thing he could do, being what he was, feeling what he felt. And when instinct failed to guide, when \x91the Power\x92 lay quiescent, he was simply waiting and blundering along; but never falling into step. He had to wait until the Power should rise with him and take him out and up where he belonged. There was a little scene the Monday evening before. It was in the rooms. Mildred was there. Henry stumbled in on the two of them, Mildred and Humphrey. They were at the piano, seated side by side. They had been studying _Tristan and Isolde_ together for a week or so; Mildred playing out the motifs. She often played the love duet from the second act for him, too. Henry heard him, mornings, trying to hum it while he shaved. They insisted that he take a chair. He, with a sense of intrusion, took the arm of one, and kept hat and stick (his thin bamboo) in his hands. Mildred said reflectively:-- \x91Corinne writes that she\x92ll be back for a week late in August.\x92 Then, noting the touch of dismay on Henry\x92s ingenuous countenance, she added, \x91But you mustn\x92t have her on your conscience, Henry.\x92 \x91It isn\x92t that----\x92 \x91I\x92m fond of Corinne. But I can see now that you two would never get on long together. In a queer way you\x92re too much alike. At least, you both have positive qualities. Corinne will some day find a nice little husband who\x92ll look after the business side of her concerts. And you--well, Henry, you\x92ve got to have some one to mother you.\x92 She smiled at him thoughtfully. \x91Some one you can make a lot of.\x92 \x91No.\x92 Henry\x92s colour was up. He was shaking his head. \x91You don\x92t understand. I\x92m through with girls. They\x92re nothing in my life. Nothing!\x92 She slowly shook her head. \x91That\x92s absurd, Henry. You\x92re particularly the kind. You\x92ll never be able to live without idealising some woman.\x92 \x91I tell you they\x92re nothing to me. My life is different now. I\x92ve changed. I\x92ve put money--a lot of money--into the _Gleaner_. It means big responsibilities. You\x92ve no idea----\x92 \x91If I hadn\x92t, seen you writing,\x92 she mused aloud.... \x91No, Henry. You won\x92t change. You\x92ll grow, but you won\x92t change. You\x92re going to write, Henry. And you\x92ll always write straight at a woman.\x92 \x91No! No!\x92 Henry was sputtering. He appeared to be struggling. \x91Life means work to me. I\x92m through with----\x92 She took down the _Tristan_ score from the piano and turned the pages in her lap. \x91Love is the great vitaliser, Henry,\x92 she said. \x91No--it\x92s the mind. Thinking. We have to learn to think clearly--objectively.\x92 \x91Objectively? No. Not you. And I\x92m glad, in a way. Because I know we\x92re going to be proud of you. But it\x92s love that makes the world go round. They don\x92t teach you that in the colleges, but it\x92s the truth... Take Wagner--and _Tristan_. He wrote it straight at a woman. And it\x92s the greatest opera ever written. And the greatest love story. It\x92s that because he was terribly in love when he wrote it. Do you Suppose, for one minute that if Wagner had never seen Mathilde Wesendonck we should have had _Tristan?_\x92 She paused, pursed her lips, studied the book with eyes that seemed to grow misty, then looked up at Humphrey. He--tall, angular, very sober--met her gaze; then his swarthy face wrinkled up about the eyes and he hurriedly drew his cob pipe from his pocket and began filling it. Henry stared at the rug; traced out the pattern with his stick. He couldn\x92t answer this last point, because he had never heard of Mathilde Wesendonck. And as he was supposed to be \x91musical\x92 it seemed best to keep quiet. He made an excuse of some sort and went out for a walk. Down by the lake he thought of several strong arguments. Mildred was wrong. She had to be wrong. For he had cut girls out. It was like Mildred to speak out in that curiously direct way. She was fond of Henry. And she had divined, out of her various, probably rather vivid contacts with life, certain half-truths that were not accepted in Sunbury. I think she saw Henry pretty clearly, saw that he was driven by an emotional dynamo that was to bring him suffering and success both.... Mildred, of course, never really belonged in a small town. It was at the close of the following afternoon that Henry came in and found Humphrey\x92s long figure stretched out on the window-seat--he was smoking, of course--of all things, blowing endless rings up at the curtains Mildred had made and hung for him. His dark skin looked gray. There were deep lines in his face. He couldn\x92t speak at first. But he stared at Henry. That young man put away hat and stick, had his coat off, and was rolling back his shirt sleeves for a wash, humming the refrain of _Kentucky Babe_. Then, through a slow moment, the queer silence about him, Humphrey\x92s attitude--that fact, for that matter, that Hump was here, at all; he was a great hand to work until six or after at the _Voice_ office--these things worked in on him like a premonition. The little song died out. He went on, a few steps, toward the bathroom, then came to a stop, turned toward the silent figure on the window-seat, came slowly over. Now he saw his friend clearly. As he sank on the arm of a chair--it was where he had sat the evening before--he caught his breath. \x91Wha--what is it?\x92 he asked. His voice was suddenly husky. His mind went blank. There was sensation among the roots of his hair. \x91What\x92s the matter, Hump?\x92 Finally Humphrey took out his pipe and spoke. His voice, too, was low and uncertain. But he gathered control of it as he went on. \x91Where\x92ve you been?\x92 he asked. \x91Me? Why, over at Rockwell Park. Bob McGibbon wanted me to see about a regular correspondent for the \x93Rockwell Park Doings.\x94\x92 \x91Heard anything?\x92 \x91Me? No. Why?... Hump, what is it? What you getting at?\x92 \x91Then I\x92ve got to tell you.\x92 He swung his feet around; sat up; emptied his pipe, then filled it. \x91Is it--is it--about me, Hump?\x92 \x91Yes. It is.\x92 \x91Well--then--hadn\x92t you better tell me?\x92 \x91I\x92m trying to, Hen. It\x92s dam\x92 unpleasant. You remember--you told me once--early in the summer--\x92 Humphrey, usually most direct, was having difficulty in getting it out--\x91you told me you rode a tandem up to Hoffmann\x92s Garden with that little Wilcox girl.\x92 \x91Oh, that! That was nothing. Why all the time I lived at Mrs Wilcox\x92s I never----\x92 \x91Yes, I know. Let me try to tell this, Hen. It\x92s hard enough. She\x92s in a scrape. That girl. There\x92s a big row on. I\x92m not going into the details, so far as I\x92ve heard \x91em. There ugly. They wouldn\x92t help. But her mother\x92s collapsed. Her uncle and aunt have turned up and taken the girl off somewhere. He\x92s a butcher on the North Side.\x92 Henry was pale but attentive. \x91In all the time I lived there,\x92 he began again... \x91Please, Hen! Wait! It is one of those mean scandals that tear up a town like this every now and then. Boils up through the crust and has to be noticed. It\x92s a beastly thing. The number of men involved... some older ones... and young Bancroft Widdicombe has left town. There\x92s some queer talk about her marrying him. And they say one or two others have run away. Widdicombe got out before the storm broke. Jim Smith says he\x92s been heard from at San Francisco.\x92 \x91But they can\x92t say of me----\x92 \x91Hen, they can and they do.\x92 \x91But I can prove----\x92 \x91What can you prove? What chance will you have to prove anything? You were disturbed when Martha Caldwell and the party with Charles H. Merchant caught you with her up at Hoffmann\x92s----\x92 \x91But, Hump, I didn\x92t _want_ to take her out that night! And it\x92s the only time I ever really talked to her except once or twice in the boarding-house.\x92 He was speaking with less energy now. He felt the blow. Not as he would feel it a few hours later; but he felt it. Humphrey watched him. \x91It has brought things home to me,\x92 he said uncertainly. \x91The sort of thing that can happen. When you\x92re caught in a drift, you don\x92t think, of course... Now, Hen, listen! This is real trouble. It\x92s going to hit you about to-morrow--full force. It\x92s got to be faced. I don\x92t want to think that you\x92d run----\x92 \x91Oh, no,\x92 Henry put in mechanically, \x91I won\x92t run.\x92 \x91I\x92m sure you won\x92t. But it\x92s got to be faced. You\x92re hit especially.\x92 \x91But why, when I----\x92 \x91Because you lived alone there, in the boarding-house, for two years. And you were caught with her at Hoffmann\x92s, she in bloomers, drinking beer. Just a cheap little tough. And there isn\x92t a thing you can do but live it down. Nobody will say a direct word to you.\x92 \x91That\x92s what I\x92ll do,\x92 said Henry, \x91live it down.\x92 \x91It\x92ll be hard, Hen.\x92 Henry sighed. \x91I\x92ve faced hard things, Hump.\x92 \x91Yes, you have, in a way.\x92 \x91I\x92ll wash up. Where we going to eat? Stanley\x92s?\x92 \x91I suppose. I don\x92t feel like eating much.\x92 It was not until they had started out that Henry gave signs of a deeper reaction. On the outer doorstep he stood motionless. \x91Coming along?\x92 asked Humphrey, trying to hide his anxiety. \x91Why--yes. In a minute... Say, Hump, do you suppose they\x92ll--you know, I ain\x92t afraid\x92--an uprush of feeling coloured his voice, brought a shake to it--\x91I don\x92t know. Perhaps I _am_ afraid. All those people--you know, at Stanley\x92s...\x92 Humphrey did an unusual thing; laid his hand on Henry\x92s shoulder affectionately; then took his arm and led him along the alley, saying:-- \x91We\x92ll go down to the lunch counter. It\x92s just as well, Hen. Better get sure of yourself first.\x92 He wondered, as they walked rapidly on--Henry had a tendency to walk fast and faster when brooding or excited--whether the boy would ever get sure of himself. There were queer, bitter, profoundly confusing thoughts in his own mind, and an emotional tension, but back of all this, coming through it and softening him, his feeling for Henry. It was something of an elder brother\x92s feeling, I think. Henry seemed very young. It was wicked that he had to suffer with all those cynical older men. It might mark the boy for life. Such things happened. He decided to watch him closely. Sooner or later the thing would hit him full. He would have to be protected then. Even from himself, perhaps. In a way it oughtn\x92t to be worse for him than it had been after the Hoffmann\x92s Garden incident. But it was worse. The other had been, after all, no more than an incident. This, now, was an overpowering fact. The town didn\x92t have to notice the other. And despite the gossiping instinct, your small community is rather glad to edge away from unpleasant surmises that are not established facts. Facts are so uncompromising. And so disrupting. And sometimes upsetting to standardised thought. \x91That\x92s it,\x92 thought Humphrey--he was reduced to thought Henry was striding on in white silence--\x91it\x92s a fact. They can\x92t evade it. Only thing they can do, if they\x92re to keep comfortable about their dam\x92 town, is to kill everybody connected with the mess. Have to revise party and dinner lists. And it\x92ll raise Ned with the golf tournament. They\x92ll resent all that. And they\x92ll have to show outsiders that the thing is an amazing exception. Nothing else going on like it. They\x92ll have to show that.\x92 3 The next morning Henry--stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little now and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously--breakfasted with Humphrey at Stanley\x92s. People--some people--spoke to him. But he winced at every greeting. Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with self-consciousness. But he held his head up pretty well. He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he hadn\x92t mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn\x92t mention it. He spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis Stevenson, for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley\x92s. And then he brought up Bob McGibbon\x92s theory that even with a country weekly, if you made your paper interesting enough you would get readers and the readers would bring the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought it would work out. \x91It\x92s important to me, you know, Hump. I\x92ve got a cool thousand up on the _Gleaner_. It\x92s like betting on Bob McGibbon\x92s idea to win.\x92 His voice trembled a little. There were volcanoes of feeling stirring within the boy. He would erupt of course, sooner or later. Humphrey found the experience moving to the point of pain. When he entered the _Gleaner_ office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought. He found occasion to say, later:-- \x91Henry, how are you taking this thing?\x92 Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with an expressive gesture and raised his eyes. \x91Oh,\x92 he said, \x91all right. I--it\x92s not true, Bob. Not about me.\x92 \x91That\x92s just what I tell \x91em,\x92 said McGibbon eagerly. \x91What you going to do? Go right on?\x92 \x91Well--why, yes! I can\x92t run away.\x92 \x91Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the paper. That\x92s what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little pictures of life-like George Ade\x92s stuff in the _Record_. Or a bit of the \x91Gene Field touch. Something they\x92d have to read. Make the _Gleaner_ known. Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That\x92s what we really need from you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception to-night at the Jenkins\x92. Anybody can cover that. I\x92ll go myself.\x92 Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head. \x91No,\x92 said he, after a pause, \x91I\x92ll cover it.\x92 McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. Here, for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his pen. It would be walking into the lion\x92s den, that was all. He wished he could think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. The _Gleaner_, just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what McGibbon called the \x91Old Cinch.\x92 Without quite enough evidence, they were now virtually accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others of connivance. Mr Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, solid, a supporter of all good things\x92. Though Boice and Waterhouse were unknown to local society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses and their crowd. They all regarded the _Gleaner_ as a scurrilous, libellous sheet, and McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village life. And there was another trouble; very recent. He couldn\x92t speak of it with the boy in this state of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn\x92t see his way... And now, with the realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a decade piled freshly on the paper\x92s bad name. But he couldn\x92t think of a way to keep him from going. The boy was, in a way, his partner. There were little delicacies between them. Henry went. The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William M. Watt, was the most important social event of the summer. The Jenkins\x92s home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light at every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree about the lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front steps to the horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting the ladies from their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even remarked in undertones, that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty thick, even considering that it was the first really public appearance of the Watts in Sunbury. The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt Currency Act, of fifteen years back... In those days his fame had overspread the boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California and the Mexican border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill nearly split a nation in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in the earlier nineties, he had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which he regained until his rather surprising marriage with the very rich, extremely vigorous American woman from abroad who called herself the Comtesse de la Plaine. At the time of his disappearance from public life various reasons had been dwelt on. One was drink. His complexion--the part of it not covered by his white beard--might have been regarded as corroborative evidence. But it was generally understood that he was \x91all right\x92 now; a meek enough little man, well past seventy, with an air of life-weariness and a suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in church. His slightly unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving his face a twisted appearance. On his occasional appearances about the streets he was always chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing generation he was a mildly historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James G. Blaine. Mrs Watt--who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought the Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached firmly to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, \x91Madame\x92--was a head taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked nose and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of commanding presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally raised questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her earlier title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the refinements of a lady--it was whispered among the younger people that she swore at her servants--still, a rich countess, married to the self-effacing but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature of things, equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths. But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned was the Madame\x92s niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school in the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first time. Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies, Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely--Cicely Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult to pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself was rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was slimly pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way of speaking and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, more than was common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French theory. The quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike was her sensitive responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She would listen in her eager way; then talk, all vivacity--head and hands moving, on the brink of a smile-every moment--then seem suddenly to recede a little, as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as if a delicate courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly listener. She could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she had read books that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly--though nothing so complex was plain to Henry at this period--she was a girl of delicate nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could be stirred to almost na\xEFve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly hurt. Henry had seen her--once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with Mary Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train, once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The sight of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of her--tantalisingly indistinct mental visions--during the late night hours between staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible wholly to escape bitterness over the thought that he hadn\x92t met her. He oughtn\x92t to care. He couldn\x92t admit to himself that it mattered. A couple of years back, in his big days, they would have met all right. First thing. Everybody would have seen to it. They would have told her about him. Now... oh well! He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for the first time he began to see that the thing couldn\x92t be rushed at. It might take years to build up a new good name--years of slights and sneers, of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that emotional climaxes pass. He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, to move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up--\x91Wearing everything they\x92ve got!\x92 he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit and straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn\x92t a guest; just the representative of a country weekly. By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to many chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair in his heart, that he couldn\x92t mount those steps. Nearly everybody there would know him. He couldn\x92t do it. He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward the steps. A third joined them; a girl. \x91Here,\x92 said this girl--Mary Ames\x92s voice--\x91you two wait here. I\x92ll find her.\x92 Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very white, curiously breathless. The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip away. New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He stepped off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking. The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn\x92t know what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, shifting his feet. Henry thought: \x91Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does _she_ know?\x92 Then Alfred\x92s wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief. \x91Oh, hallo. Hen;\x92 he said. Then, after a long silence, \x91Like you to meet Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.\x92 Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl\x92s name first or the man\x92s. But he hadn\x92t heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, it would be almost better... Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name. He had to step forward too. In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way. In responsive confusion she raised hers. But his had dropped. Hers moved downward as his came up again. She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly. He took it. He didn\x92t know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous clasp. \x91I\x92ve heard of you,\x92 she said. He liked her voice. \x91You write, don\x92t you?\x92 \x91Oh yes,\x92 said he huskily, \x91I write some.\x92 She didn\x92t know. He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the old days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging. Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers. \x91Do you write stories?\x92 she asked politely. \x91I try to, sometimes. It\x92s awfully hard.\x92 \x91Oh yes, I know.\x92 \x91Do _you_ write?\x92 \x91Why--oh no! But I\x92ve wished I could. I\x92ve tried a little.\x92 So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the weather. It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. He saw, felt, the presence of a girl unlike any he had known--slimly pretty, alive with a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, and felt, a white tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy fire in them. Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the sight of them, Alfred drifted away again. \x91Perhaps,\x92 she added shyly, \x91you\x92d bring some of your stories.\x92 \x91I haven\x92t anything I could bring,\x92 he replied, still with that burning look. \x91Nothing \x91that\x92s any good. If I had...\x92 Then this blazed from him in a low shaky voice: \x91You haven\x92t heard what they\x92re saying about me. I can see that. If you had you wouldn\x92t ask me to call.\x92 \x91Oh, I\x92m sure I would,\x92 she murmured, greatly confused. \x91You wouldn\x92t. You really couldn\x92t. But I want to say this--quick, before they come!\x92--for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway--\x91I\x92ve _got_ to say it! They\x92ll tell you something about me. Something dreadful. It isn\x92t true. It--is--not true!\x92 \x91She isn\x92t in there,\x92 said Mary, joining them. Then \x91Oh!\x92 She looked at Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, \x91How do you do!\x92 in a voice that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, ignoring him: \x91We\x92d better tell them.\x92 And moved a step toward the group under the lanterns. Cicely hesitated. It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry couldn\x92t speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain. Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back. The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way. Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins--tall, really good-looking in his perfect-fitting evening clothes--stood before them. He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct. \x91All right,\x92 said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, \x91we\x92ll go without her. She won\x92t mind.\x92 Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand. \x91Do come,\x92 she said, with a quick little smile. \x91And bring the stories. I\x92m sure I\x92d like them.\x92 She went with them, then. Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered alone among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing uncontrollably. It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down to the _Gleaner_ office. 5 The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A. But there was a light in the windows of the _Gleaner_ office, over Hemple\x92s. McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand sprawling through his straight ragged hair. Henry acknowledged his partner\x92s greeting with a grunt; dropped down at his own desk; plunged at the story. McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good deal. \x91There,\x92 said Henry, finally, with a grim look--\x91there\x92s the reception story.\x92 \x91Oh, all right.\x92 McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat on the edge of the table beside Henry\x92s desk. \x91Haven\x92t got some good filler stuff?\x92 he queried wearily, brushing a hand across his forehead. \x91We\x92re going to have a lot of extra space this week.\x92 He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead. \x91The fact is,\x92 he remarked, \x91they\x92ve landed on us. Pretty hard. The advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It\x92s a sort of boycott, apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called my note--that two hundred and forty-eight--for paper. Simply charged it up against our account. Pretty dam\x92 high-handed, I call it!\x92 His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor. \x91They\x92re showing fight,\x92 he ran on. \x91We\x92ve got to lick \x91em. That\x92s my way--start at the drop of the hat. What\x92s a little advertising! Get readers--that\x92s the real trick of it. We\x92ll lick \x91em with circulation, that\x92s what we\x92ll do!\x92 He stood over Henry\x92s desk; even pounded it. The boy didn\x92t seem to get it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No money sense whatever! \x91Henry,\x92 he was crying now, \x91it\x92s up to you. You\x92re a genius. It\x92s sheer waste to use you on fool receptions. _Write_, man! WRITE! Let yourself go. Anything--sketches, verse, stories! Let\x92s give \x91em what they don\x92t look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington _Hawkeye_ and that fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have heard of if Kipling hadn\x92t written prose and verse to fill in, here and there. He was a kid, too. There\x92s always, somewhere, a little paper that\x92s famous because a man can _write_. Why shouldn\x92t it be us! Us! Right up here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old _Gleaner_ known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where\x92ll old Weston be! Where\x92ll these little two-bit advertisers be!\x92 He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now; slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, \x91I\x92m tired. Guess I\x92d better get along;\x92 and walked out. McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open. 6 Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. He was tingling with excitement. He couldn\x92t move slowly. His fists were clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight. He was thinking hopelessly, \x91I must relax.\x92 He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey\x92s lathes, belts, benches of tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There were large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering with for a long time. Three years, he had once said. Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams of moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that machine. He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in the universe. Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. People didn\x92t succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, tireless current that swept them ever backward. Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; or nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom walls upstairs. His daily work at the _Voice_ office was just a grind, to keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. Hump was patient. \x91Until I moved in here,\x92 Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive sort of\x92 bitterness, \x91and brought girls and things. He doesn\x92t have his nights and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.\x92 He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room. He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white. There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned up at the ends, mocked him. \x91I\x92ll shave it off,\x92 he said aloud. He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it. He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks. Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that. He put the razor back in its drawer. In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he said:-- \x91I\x92ll face them. I\x92ll go down fighting. They shan\x92t say I surrendered.\x92 He walked round and round the room. He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A restlessness that wouldn\x92t permit him so much as to sit down. While in the _Gleaner_ office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon. He certainly hadn\x92t listened to him. But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding his desk. Talking--talking--full of fresh hopes while the world crumbled around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old globe as it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!... The advertisers had at last combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon\x92s note. That must have taken about the last of Henry\x92s thousand. They were broke. His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must have thrust it back there absently, at the office. He drew it out and gazed at it. It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at the top, and his name. He couldn\x92t see what the title was. Yet it was there, and it was good. His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There was a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and drove him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and wander at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore--walk all night--or he must sit down and write. He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey\x92s and wrote on his lap. And he wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, in a fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up a little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead and temples, then on his cheeks. When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture, writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the room. He didn\x92t hear his friend come up the stairs.\x92 When he saw him, standing, looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly\x92:-- \x91Don\x92t Hump!\x92 Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a \x91Don\x92t what?\x92 \x91Go on! Don\x92t disturb me!\x92 \x91You seem to be hitting it up.\x92 \x91I am. I can\x92t talk! Please--go away! Go to bed. You\x92ll make me lose it!\x92 Humphrey obeyed. Later--well along in the night--he awoke. There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. It was quarter to three. \x91Here!\x92 he called. \x91What on earth are you up to, Hen?\x92 A chair scraped. Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, and his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the two ends and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down over his forehead. \x91Do you know what time it is, Hen?\x92 \x91No. Say--listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I did about the Business Men\x92s Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta grown out of it. It\x92s just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! There\x92s a title for the book.\x92 \x91For the what!\x92 \x91The book. Oh, there\x92ll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe they\x92re stories. I can\x92t tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, that\x92s good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me all at once--to-night!--Queer, isn\x92t it!--thinking about the folks along the street--Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop--Schultz and Schwartz\x92s--and Donovan\x92s soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that\x92s been in the British Mounted Police in Mashonaland--think of it! In Africa--and----\x92 \x91Would you mind\x92--Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes--\x91would you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can\x92t----\x92 \x91All right, Hump. Only I\x92m excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me that there\x92s as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in Kipling\x92s Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people\x92s lives go. And what old Berger\x92s really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables were picked yesterday.\x92 Humphrey gazed--wider awake now--at the wild figure before him. And a thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed. \x91How much have you done?\x92 he asked soberly. \x91Most finished this first one. It\x92s about old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse and Mr Weston----\x92 \x91Gee!\x92 said Humphrey. \x91I call it, _The Caliph of Simpson Street_.\x92 \x91Well--see here, you\x92re going to bed, aren\x92t you?\x92 \x91Oh, yes. But listen.\x92 And he began reading aloud. Humphrey waved his arms. \x91No, no! For heaven\x92s sake, go to bed, Hen!\x92 \x91Well, but--oh, say! Just thought of something!\x92 And he went out, chuckling. Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that was not altogether of the sun. The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a dream. He sprang out of bed. There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying. He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, apparently out of sheer happiness. \x91Say,\x92 he cried, \x91listen to this! It\x92s one I call, _The Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. Oh, by the way, I\x92ve changed the title of the book to _Satraps of the Simple_. \x91The whole book\x92ll be sort of imaginary, like that. It\x92s queer. Just as if it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. Only everything I ever knew\x92s going into it. Things I\x92d forgotten.\x92 \x91Hen,\x92 said Humphrey, \x91are you stark mad?\x92 \x91Me? Why--why no, Hump!\x92 The grin was a thought sheepish now. \x91But--well, Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.\x92 \x91How many stories have you written already?\x92 \x91Just three.\x92 \x91_Three!_ In one night!\x92 \x91But they\x92re short, Hump. I don\x92t believe-they average over two or three thousand words. I think they\x92re good. You know, just the way they made me feel. Funny idea--Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.\x92 \x91One thing\x92s certain, Hen. You\x92re an extremely surprising youth, but right here\x92s where you quit. I don\x92t propose to have a roaring maniac here in the rooms. On my hands.\x92 \x91Oh, Hump, I can\x92t quit now! You don\x92t understand. It\x92s wonderful. It just comes. Like taking dictation.\x92 \x91Dictation is what you\x92re going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up your clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We\x92ll go out for some breakfast.\x92 \x91Not now, Hump! Wait--I promise I\x92ll go out a little later.\x92 \x91You\x92ll go now. Get up.\x92 Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again. \x91Gosh!\x92 he murmured. \x91Stiff, eh?\x92 \x91I should smile. And sorta weak.\x92 \x91No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast you\x92ll go straight to bed.\x92 \x91Hump, I can\x92t.\x92 This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn\x92t. He stopped in at Jackson\x92s Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones\x92s) and bought paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he bought penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a bronze dog seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half a dozen pads of a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget\x92s _Thesaurus_, (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), a round glass paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four boxes of wire clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb\x92s _Synonyms_. Then he saw an old copy of _The Thousand and One Nights_ and bought that. It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he went out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters. And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often fatal words:-- \x91Just charge it, if you don\x92t mind.\x92 7 He was back at the rooms by nine-fifteen. Before the university clock boomed out the hour of noon, he had written that elusive, extraordinary little classic, _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, and had jotted down suggestive notes for the story that was later to be known as _The Printer and the Pearls_. By this time all thoughts of civic reform had faded out. Charlie Waterhouse, now that _The Caliph of Simpson Street_ was done and, in a surface sense, forgotten, no longer appeared to him as a crook who should be ousted from the local political triumvirate and from town office; he was but a bit of ore in the rich lode of human material with which Henry\x92s fancy was playing. The important fact about the new Waterhouse store-and-office building in South Sunbury, was not that there was reason to believe Charlie had built it with town money but that he had put a medallion bas-relief of himself in terra cotta in the front wall. Charlie figured, though, unquestionably, in _Sinbad the Treasurer_. At noon, deciding that he would stroll out after a little and eat a bite, Henry stretched out on the lounge. Here he dozed, very lightly for an hour or two. Humphrey stole in, found him tossing there, fully dressed, mumbling in his sleep, and stole out. But early in the afternoon Henry leaped up. His brain, or his emotions, or whatever the source of his ideas, was a glowing, boiling, seething crater of tantalising, obscurely associated concepts and scraps of characterisation and queerly vivid, half-glimpsed dramatic moments, situations, contrasts. They amounted to a force that dragged him on. The thought that some bit might escape before he could catch it and get it written down kept his pulse racing. At about half-past four he finished that curious fantasy, _Roc\x92s Eggs, Strictly Fresh_. This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly now. The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. He knew that the concluding story was to be called _The Old Man of the Street_. He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of others yet to be written--_Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen_ and _Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and one or two more. His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. During the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital matters of candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused to sing. Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars a Sunday he could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the occasional sums from substituting in this or that male quartet and singing at funerals. It was even more extraordinary that he should have given up, as he did, his old habit of singing to girls. The only explanation he had ever offered of this curious stand was the rather obscure one he gave Humphrey that singing was \x91too physical.\x92 Whatever the real complex of motives, it had been a rather violent, or at least a complete reaction. But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows puckered, roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. The results naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long silence, but he kept at it. He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously in. \x91Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,\x92 said the editor of the _Gleaner_, \x91and he said I\x92d better look you up.\x92 An hour later McGibbon--red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter in his eyes--hurried down to the _Gleaner_ office with the pencilled manuscripts of four of the \x91Caliph\x92 stories. He was hurrying because it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one thing, something might happen to them--fire, anything. For another, it might occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine. When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into _Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and was chuckling out loud as he wrote. Friday night was press night at the _Gleaner_ office. Henry strolled in about ten o\x92clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on McGibbon\x92s desk. That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled hair, and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, grinning youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression of such utter happiness on a human face. \x91How many stories is this?\x92 he asked. \x91Ten.\x92 \x91Good Lord! That\x92s a whole book!\x92 \x91No--hardly. I\x92ve thought of some more. There\x92ll be fifteen or twenty altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I\x92ll call it. _The Story of the Man from Jerusalem_. It\x92s about the life of a little Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden--you know, how he must feel. I don\x92t think I\x92ll write it to-night--just make a few notes so it won\x92t get away from me.\x92 Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the arm, and marched him, protesting, home. \x91Now,\x92 he said, \x91you go to bed.\x92 \x91Sure, Bob! What\x92s the matter with you! I\x92m just going to jot down a few notes------\x92 \x91You\x92re going to bed!\x92 said McGibbon. And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and stretched out peacefully asleep.\x92 Henry slept until nearly three o\x92clock Saturday afternoon. 8 Senator Watt laid down the _Gleaner_, took off his glasses, removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky voice:-- \x91A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.\x92 The nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He had to be mentioned. \x91It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The author produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.\x92 The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured, solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself of this opinion he resumed his \x91dry smoke\x92 and reached for the _Evening Post_, which lay folded back to the financial page. \x91I was sure you would think so,\x92 said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at the Senator then at her aunt. \x91I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it bent sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze with a hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece. \x91Even so,\x92 she said. \x91Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he\x92s a bad lot.\x92 \x91I have no intention of cultivating him,\x92 replied Cicely, moving toward the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into place. She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock. Madame Watt read the opening sentence of _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, then lowered the paper again. \x91Are you going out, Cicely?\x92 \x91No, I expect company here.\x92 \x91Who is coming?\x92 The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:-- \x91Elberforce Jenkins.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 said Madame, and raised the paper. An electric bell rang. Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; considered them. The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the distance. The butler appeared. \x91Mr Henry Calverly calling,\x92 he said. Madame Watt raised her head so abruptly that her glasses fell, brought up with a jerk at the end of a thin gold chain, and swung there. Cicely stood motionless by the roses. The Senator glanced up, then shifted his cigar and resumed his study of the financial page. \x91You will hardly----\x92 began Madame. \x91Show him into the drawing-room,\x92 said Cicely with dignity. The butler wavered. Then, as if to settle all such small difficulties, Henry himself appeared behind him, smiling naively, eagerly. Cicely hurried forward. Her quick smile came, and the little bob of her head. \x91How do you do?\x92 she said brightly. \x91Mr Calverly--my aunt, Madame Watt! And my uncle, Senator Watt!\x92 Madame Watt arose, deliberately, not without a solid sort of majesty. She was a presence; no other such ever appeared in Sunbury. She fixed an uncompromising gaze on Henry. So uncompromising was it that Cicely covered her embarrassment by moving hurriedly toward the drawingroom, with a quick:-- \x91Come right in here.\x92 There was no one living on this erratic earth who could have cowed Henry on this Saturday evening. A week later, yes. But not to-night. He never even suspected that Madame meant to cow him. In such moments as these (and there were a good many of them in his life) Henry was incapable of perceiving hostility toward himself. The disaster that on Tuesday had seemed the end of the world was to-night a hazy memory of another epoch. There were few grown or half-grown persons in Sunbury that were not thinking on this evening of the meanest scandal in the known history of the town and, incidentally, among others involved, of Henry Calverly; but Henry himself was of those few. He marched straight on Madame with cordial smile and outstretched hand. He wrung the hand of the impassive Senator. That worthy said, now:-- \x91I have just read this first of your new series of sketches. Allow me to tell you that I think it admirable. In the briefest possible compass you have pictured a whole community in its petty relationships, at once tragic and comic. There is caustic satire in this sketch, yet I find deep human sympathy as well. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.\x92 When, after a rather amazing outpouring of words--the thing didn\x92t amount to much; just a rough draft really; he hoped they\x92d like the next one; it was about cauliflowers--he had disappeared into the front room, the Senator remarked:-- \x91The young man makes an excellent impression.\x92 \x91The young man,\x92 remarked Madame, \x91is all right.\x92 Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice, caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption in the story called _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, which Henry was reading from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished _The Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. For a moment Cicely\x92s face went blank. The butler announced:-- \x91Mr Jenkins calling, Miss Cicely.\x92 The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the doorway, staring. Cicely was only a moment late with her smile. Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and folded up the long strips of galley proof. Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely\x92s hand. But his small talk had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry\x92s nod. Cicely, nervously active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a Country Club dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses. Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by nothing at all--first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow. Henry sat still. Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long moment each held the gaze. It was war. Cicely said now, greatly confused:-- \x91I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.\x92 There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight to the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, and plunged into that old song of Samuel\x92s Lover\x92s that has quaint charm when delivered with spirit and humour, _Kitty of Coleraine_. After which he sang, _Rory O\x92More_. He had spirit and humour aplenty to-night. The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for _The Low-Back Car_. Elbow left. \x91Why did you tell me you hadn\x92t any stories you could bring?\x92 Cicely asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. \x91It was so. I didn\x92t.\x92 \x91You had these.\x92 \x91No. I didn\x92t. That\x92s just it!\x92 \x91But you don\x92t mean----\x92 \x91Yes! Just since I met you!\x92 \x91Ten stories, you said. It seems--I can\x92t----\x92 \x91But it\x92s true. Three days. And nights, of course. I\x92ve been so excited!\x92 \x91I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ in three days. But ten different stories.\x92... She sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly thoughtful. \x91It sounds a little like magic.\x92 She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair. \x91I wrote them straight at you,\x92 he said, low, earnest. \x91Every word.\x92 Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to elaborate. \x91You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with me. And then that horrible story that wasn\x92t true. I knew I shouldn\x92t have spoken of it to you, but--well, it was just driving me crazy, and I couldn\x92t bear to think you might despise me like the others without ever knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration you... Even then, I mean...\x92 He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket. \x91Shall I--finish--this?\x92 \x91Oh, _yes!_\x92 She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him with glowing eyes. \x91I want you to read me all of them. Please!\x92 She said it almost shyly. Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on. It was victory. VII--THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION 1 |There is nothing more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, incalculable success. It at once thrills, depresses, confuses. People attack with the most unexpected venom. Others, the most unexpected others, defend with vehemence, One feels queerly out of it, yet forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one else, or a dream. Innocent effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled over, misunderstood. One boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the thing will keep up and fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped and ever after thinks back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days, the great days, when one did stir them up a bit. Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to Stanley\x92s. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was deep in his personal concern. This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his pocket and submitted it to his room mate. \x91Got this last night,\x92 Henry explained moodily. Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:-- \x91Henry Calverly, can\x92t you see that your attentions are making it hard for a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along with yours? Why don\x92t you do the decent thing and leave town! \x91_A Round Robin of People Who Know You_.\x92 Humphrey pursed his lips over it. \x91It\x92s the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,\x92 he said finally. Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his eyes. Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back. \x91Do you know who did it?\x92 Henry shook his head. \x91They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of course. It\x92s about Cicely Hamlin and me.\x92 \x91You can\x92t do anything.\x92 \x91I know.\x92 \x91And maybe you\x92re going to be so successful that it won\x92t matter. Laugh at \x91em.\x92 \x91I don\x92t believe that, Hump. I can\x92t even imagine it.\x92 \x91At that, it may be jealousy.\x92 \x91I\x92ve thought of that. Even if it is...\x92 they\x92re partly right. I didn\x92t do what they think, but... Don\x92t you see, Hump?\x92 \x91Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.\x92 \x91I\x92ve felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there to call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.\x92 His voice was unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. \x91I\x92ve stayed away all this week. Just worked. You know. You\x92ve seen how I\x92ve kept at it. Until Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was out. And that\x92s all. I\x92ve thought I--I\x92ve felt... Hump, do you believe in love--you know--at first sight?\x92 Humphrey\x92s long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered. \x91I ought to,\x92 he replied. \x91In a way it was like that--with me.\x92 2 The first of Henry\x92s meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk of the village, that one called _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, had appeared in the _Gleaner_ of the preceding Saturday. It had made a distinct stir. The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. In the order of writing, and in Henry\x92s plans, it should have been _The Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of putting _Sinbad the Treasurer_ in its place. He had all but the last one or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties; and he didn\x92t consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder this way. _The Cauliflowers_ was quietly humorous; while _Sinbad the Treasurer_ had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the foreman, Jimmy Albers. The word \x91punch\x92 was fresh slang then. McGibbon himself introduced it into Sunbury. Henry had Charlie and the town money in the back of his head, of course, when he wrote _Sinbad_. Probably more than he himself knew. McGibbon sniffed a sensation in the brief, vivid narrative. And a sensation of some sort he had to have. It was now or never with McGibbon.... He was able even to chuckle at the way Charlie would froth. He couldn\x92t admit that the coat fitted, of course. He would just have to froth. It was Henry\x92s _na\xEFvet\xE9_ that made the thing so perfect. An older man wouldn\x92t have dared. Henry had just naturally rushed in. Yes, it was perfect. Bob McGibbon was a hustler. And his nervous quickness of perception had brought him a few small successes and was to bring him larger ones. His Sunbury disaster was perhaps later to be charged to education. The roots of that particular failure went deep. From first to last his attitude was that of a New Yorker in a small town. He outraged every local prejudice; he alienated, one by one, each friendly influence. He couldn\x92t understand that any such village as Sunbury resents the outsider who insists on pointing out its little human failings. It was recognised here and there as possible that old man Boice and Mr Weston of the bank might be covering up something in the matter of the genial town treasurer; but there was reason enough to believe that Mr Boice and Mr Weston knew pretty well what they were about. That, at least, was the rather equivocal position into which McGibbon by his very energy and assertiveness, drove many a ruffled citizen. And it had needed very little urging on the part of the three leading citizens (McGibbon had a trick of referring to them in his paper as \x91the Old Cinch\x92) to bring about the boycott on the part of the Simpson Street and South Sunbury advertisers. As Charlie Waterhouse himself put it:-- \x91It ain\x92t what he says about me. I can stand it. Man to man I can attend to him. The thing is, he\x92s hurtin\x92 the town. That\x92s it--he\x92s hurtin\x92 the town.\x92 3 I have spoken of McGibbon\x92s perception. He knew before reading three paragraphs that Henry had a touch of genius. Before finishing _A Kerbstone Barmecide_ he knew--knew with a mental grasp that was pitifully wasted on the petty business of a country weekly--that nothing comparable had appeared anywhere in the English-speaking world since _Plain Tales from the Hills and Soldiers Three_. He knew, further, what no Sunbury seems ever able to recognise, that it is your occasional Henry who, as he mentally put it, \x91rings the bell.\x92 A queer young man, slightly dudish in dress, unable to fit in any conventional job, unable really to fall into step with his generation, blunderingly but incorrigibly a non-conformist, a moodily earnest yet absurdly susceptible young man, slightly self-conscious, known here and there among those of his age as \x91sarcastic,\x92 brilliant occasionally, dogged some of the time, dreamy and irresponsible the rest, yet with charm. A youth who not infrequently was guilty of queer, rather unsocial acts; not of meanness or unkindness, rather of an inability to feel with and for others, to fit. A youth destined to work out his salvation, if at all, alone. Yes, McGibbon read the signs shrewdly. For which Sunbury owes that erratic editor a small debt that remains unpaid and unrecorded to-day. No doubt that McGibbon brought him out. Encouraged him, spurred him, held him to it. It was tradition in Sunbury that the two weekly papers should come decorously into the world each Saturday morning for the first delivery of mail. A small pile of each, toward noon was put on sale in Jackson\x92s book store (formerly B. F. Jones\x92s). That was all. And that was why McGibbon was able, on this Saturday of our story, to shake the town. Poor old Sunbury was shaken heavily and often that summer. First by the Mamie Wilcox scandal. The sort of thing that didn\x92t, couldn\x92t happen. Men leaving town, and all that. A miserable, hastily contrived marriage. Henry\x92s name dragged in, unjustly (as it happened), but convincingly. Though Henry always worked best after some sort of a blow. He had to be shaken out of himself. I think. It isn\x92t likely that he could or would have written _Satraps of the Simple_ if this particular blow hadn\x92t fallen. It was a feverish job. He was stung, quivering, helpless. And then his great gift functioned. Then Madame Watt happened to Sunbury. And shook the village to its roots. And then came Bob McGibbon\x92s last and mightiest effort. When all commuting Sunbury converged on the old red brick \x91depot\x92 that morning for the seven-eleven and the seven forty-six and the eight-three and the eight-twenty-nine, hoarsely bellowing newsboys held the two ends of the platform. They wore cotton caps with \x91The Weekly Gleaner\x92 printed around the front. They were big, deep-throated roughs, the sort that shout \x91extras\x92 through the cities. They crowded the local newsdealer, little Mr Beamer, back into one of the waiting-rooms. They fairly intimidated the town. People bought the _Gleaner_ in self-defence, even boarded trains and rode off to Chicago without their regular _Tribune_ or _Record_ or _Inter Ocean_. Other newsmen roamed the shady, pleasant residence streets, bellowing. Housewives, old gentlemen, servants, hurried out to buy. There were posters on the fences, and, along the billboards from Rockwell Park on the south to Borea on the north. McGibbon actually rented the space from the Northern Billboard Company. And there were newsmen with caps, in the afternoon, attacking the North Shore home-comers in the Chicago station, the very heart of things. All this--posters screaming like the news-men; big wood type, red and black--to advertise _Sinbad the Treasurer_ and the rest of the long series and Henry Calverly. \x91Attack\x92 is the word. McGibbon was assaulting the town and the region as it had hardly been assaulted before. If it was his last, it was surely his most outrageous act from the local point of view. People talked, boiled, raged. The blatancy of the thing irritated them to the point of impotent mutterings. They were helpless. McGibbon was breaking no laws. He was stirring them, however feverish his condition of mind, with deliberate intent. It was his notion of advertising. Reaching the mark, regardless of obstacles, indifference, difficulties. And had his personal circumstances been less harrowing he could have chuckled happily at the result. The noise fell upon the ear drums of Charlie Waterhouse as he walked down-town. A ragged, red-faced pirate thrust a _Gleaner_ into his hand, snatched his nickel, and rushed off, bellowing. Charlie began reading _Sinbad the Treasurer_ as he walked. He finished it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing acquaintances, nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In the same condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while, wavering; then went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when she asked him why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He didn\x92t appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago and went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack\x92s. Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the _Voice_ office. Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, apparently buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it all after leaving Henry at Stanley\x92s door, and had prowled a bit, taking it in. But Mr Boice simply made little sounds--\x91Hmm!\x92 and \x91mmp!\x92 and \x91Hmm!\x92 again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went out. For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director\x92s room at the bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:-- \x91Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.\x92 Thus Boice. \x91We\x92d get the stories that way. Suppress \x91em.\x92 The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he had suffered a week back in _The Caliph of Simpson Street_. Everybody within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new drawn head for the _Voice_, with the phrase \x91And _The Weekly Gleaner_\x92 neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in Sunbury anyway. Mr Weston was shaking his head. \x91May as well sit tight, Nort. What harm\x92s to be done, is done already. He\x92ll have to come down. We\x92ll get him then.\x92 \x91You haven\x92t got any of his paper here, have you?\x92 \x91There was one note. I called that some time ago.\x92 \x91Wha\x92d he do?\x92 \x91Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can\x92t last. Not without advertising.\x92 \x91But he\x92s selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he\x92ll begin to pick up a little along the street.\x92 Mr Weston was still shaking his head. \x91Better wait, Nort.\x92 \x91No, I\x92ll offer him a few hundred. The old _Gleaner_ plant\x92s worth something.\x92 \x91Of course, there\x92s no harm in that.\x92 So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple\x92s market and laboriously lifted his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the _Gleaner_ upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed McGibbon listened to him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling politeness, showed him out and down again. 4 The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Sch\xFCtz and Schwartz\x92s, whither he went from Stanley\x92s. Professor Hennis, of the English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted on shaking hands. \x91These sketches of yours, Calverly--the two I have read--are remarkable. There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer to me. Sunbury will live to be proud of you.\x92 This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded. Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz--fat, exuberant--said, bending over him:-- \x91Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?\x92 And added, \x91You\x92ve got \x91em excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse\x92ll punch your head before night. Says he\x92ll have to. Can\x92t sue very well.\x92 It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up window of Murphy\x92s cigar store. Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with the Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple\x92s corner and up the stairs. McGibbon sat alone in the front office--coat off, vest open, longish hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs stretched out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in pockets. He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar. \x91Great days!\x92 he remarked dryly. \x91Gee!\x92 Henry dropped into a chair, laid his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. \x91Gee! You do know how to get\x92em going!\x92 The cigar waved again. \x91Sure! Stir\x92em up! Soak it to\x92em! Only way.\x92 \x91Everybody\x92s buying it.\x92 \x91Rather! You\x92re a hit, son!\x92 \x91Oh, I don\x92t know\x92s I\x92d say that.\x92 \x91Rats! You\x92re a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it and they\x92d be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only had the two months.\x92 He sighed. \x91Why!\x92 Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. \x91What\x92s the matter?\x92 \x91We\x92re-out of paper.\x92 \x91You mean to print on?\x92 A nod. \x91And we\x92re out of money to buy more.\x92 \x91But with this big sale--\x92 \x91Costing four \x91n\x92 one-half times what we take in.\x92 \x91But I don\x92t see----\x92 \x91Don\x92t you? That\x92s business, Hen. That\x92s this world. You pour your money in--whip up your sales--drive, drive, _drive!_ After a while it goes of itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You\x92re rich. That\x92s the way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why, I know stories of the early days of--look here, what we need is money. Got to have it. Right now, while they\x92re on the run. If we can\x92t get it, and get it quick, well\x92--he reached deliberately forward, picked up a copy of the _Gleaner_ and waved it high--\x91that--that, my son, is the last copy of the _Gleaner!_\x92 Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face. \x91But my stories!\x92 he cried. \x91They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.\x92 \x91But they\x92re mine!\x92 A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry\x92s voice. McGibbon shook his head. \x91No, Hen. We\x92re known to have them. They\x92re in type here. You\x92re helpless. We\x92re both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my note for that. You\x92ll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it--five hundred for our plant, the big press and everything.\x92 \x91Wha--wha\x92d you say?\x92 \x91Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never. Now look here, Hen, you\x92ve got a little more, haven\x92t you? Your uncle----\x92 Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.\x92 He was far beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks. But even in this condition, thoughts came. One of these--or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a sort of instinct--was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch of guilty discomfort--hostility came hard, with Henry--yet it was distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn\x92t do. \x91No!\x92 said Henry. And again, \x91No! Not a cent from my uncle!\x92 McGibbon\x92s hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense gestures. \x91You don\x92t seem to get it, Hen!\x92 he cried. \x91We\x92re through--broke!\x92 He glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. \x91No pay-roll--nothing! Nothing for the boys out there--or me--or you. I\x92ve been sitting here wondering how I can tell\x92em. Got to.\x92 \x91Nothing!\x92 Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache--\x91for me?\x92 \x91Not a cent.\x92 \x91But--but----\x92 Henry\x92s earthly wealth at the moment was about forty cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable. \x91Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can\x92t you get hold of that fact? Even a hundred--the pay-roll\x92s only ninety-six-fifty. If I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our paper stock in time.\x92 Henry heard his own voice saying:-- \x91But don\x92t business men borrow----\x92 \x91Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn\x92t lend me the rope to hang myself with... Hold on there, Hen--\x92 For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the door. And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:-- \x91No... No!\x92 He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had a really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart out--aloud--in the street--angrily--attacking Boice, Weston, and McGibbon in the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted to bitterness now. But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the borders of rage. He thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting at his desk in the post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web about the town, where helpless little human flies crawled innocently about their uninspired daily tasks. So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the stories! No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets, held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn\x92t understand that. They were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing--just a few one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them away to print them in the _Gleaner_. But they weren\x92t Bob\x92s. \x91They\x92re mine!\x92 he said aloud. \x91They\x92re mine! Old Boice shan\x92t have them! Never!\x92 He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot emotion and tingling nerves. 5 A little later--it was getting on toward noon--he found himself on Filbert Avenue approaching Simpson Street. Without plan or guidance, he was heading northward, toward the rooms. It would be necessary to cross Simpson Street. He was fighting down the impulse to go several blocks to the east, toward the lake, where the stores and shops gave place to homes and lawns and shade trees, where he could slip across unnoticed; but his feet were leading him straight toward the corner of Filbert and Simpson, the busiest, most conspicuous corner in town, where were the hotel and Berger\x92s grocery and, only a few doors off, Donovan\x92s drug store and Swanson\x92s flower shop and Duneen\x92s general store and the _Voice_ office. It had come down, the warfare within him, to a question of proving to himself that he wasn\x92t a coward, that he could face disaster, even the complete disaster that seemed now to be upon him. It was like the end of the world. In a pocket his fingers were tightly clasped about the anonymous note that had been the cloud over his troubled sleep of the night and his gloomy awakening of the morning. The note was now but a detail in the general crash. He decided to press on, march straight across Simpson Street, head high. He even brought out the note from his pocket; held it in his hand as he walked stiffly on. It was a somewhat bitter touch of bravado, but I find I like Henry none the less for it. A little way short of the corner, it must be recorded, he faltered. It was by Berger\x92s rear door. There was a gate in the fence here, that now stood open. Two of the Berger delivery wagons were backed in there. And right by the gate Henry Berger himself, his ample person enveloped in a long white apron, was opening a crate. Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak to any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with the idea of moving on. But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, \x91How are you, Henry!\x92 he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, a feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial quality had not, after all, been hardened out of life. He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds with his stick. Mr Berger _was_ smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook the hand; then leaned on his hatchet. \x91Getting hot,\x92 he remarked. Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate. \x91Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.\x92 Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that Henry had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases out front. \x91He was just here. Don\x92t mind telling you that he\x92s trying to get McGibbon\x92s creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn\x92t look as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five hundred. It ain\x92t as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just living alone at the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning for fair. Never saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising boycott...\x92 Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot. \x91Well,\x92 he said now, \x91I guess I\x92d better be getting along.\x92 \x91I was just going to say, Henry, that you\x92ve give me a good laugh. Keep on like this and you\x92ll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a minute! I don\x92t know\x92s you\x92re in a position to do anything about it, but I was just going to say, I rather guess the old _Gleaner_ could be picked up for next to nothing right now. And there\x92s folks here that ain\x92t so anxious to see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam anxious.... Wait a minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of the Old Boy\x92d find it wouldn\x92t be so easy to hold this boycott together. There\x92s folks that would break away---- Well, that\x92s about all that was on my mind. Only I\x92d sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They\x92re grand reading, Henry. My wife like to \x91a\x92 died over that one last week--_The Sultan of Simpson Street_.\x92 \x91\x93Caliph!\x94\x92 said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. \x91_The Caliph of Simpson Street_.\x92 \x91Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer \x91n a goat. My wife\x92s literary, and she says it\x92s worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the people talking to-day about this new one.\x92 \x91_Sinbad the Treasurer!_\x92 said Henry quickly, fearing another misquotation: \x91Yay-ah. That. Ain\x92t had time to read it yet myself. They say it\x92s great.\x92 \x91Well--good-bye,\x92 said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the corner. \x91Funny!\x92 mused the grocer,\x92 looking after him. \x91These geniuses never have any business sense. I give him a real opening there.\x92 6 Simpson Street was always crowded of a Saturday morning with thoughtful housewives. The grocers and butchers bustled about. The rows of display racks along the sidewalk were heaped with fresh vegetables and fruits. The majority of the shoppers came afoot, but the kerb was lined with buggies, surries, neat station wagons and dog-carts, crowded in between the delivery wagons. Sunbury boasted, as well, a number of Stanhopes, a barouche or two, and several landaus. The Jenkins family, among its several members, had a stable full of horses and ponies. William B. Snow owned a valuable chestnut team with silver-mounted harness. Here and there along the street one might have seen, on this occasion, several vehicles that might well have been described as smart. But Sunbury had never seen anything like the equipage that, at a quarter to twelve--a little late for selective shopping in those days--came rolling smoothly, silently, on its rubber-shod wheels across the tracks and past the post-office, Nelson\x92s bakery, the Sunbury National Bank, Duneen\x92s and Donovan\x92s to Swanson\x92s flower shop. Never, never had Sunbury seen anything quite like that. Mr Berger, hurrying through to the front of his store, stopped short, stared out across the street and after a breathless moment breathed the words, \x91Holy Smoke!\x92 Women stood motionless, holding heads of lettuce, boxes of raspberries and what not, and gazed in an amazement that was actually long minutes in reaching the normal mental state of critical appraisal. The carriage was a Victoria, hung very low, varnished work glistening brilliantly in the sunshine. It was upholstered conspicuously in plum colour. The horses were jet black, glossy, perfectly matched, checked up so high that the necks arched prettily if uncomfortably; and they had docked tails. The harness they wore was mounted with a display of silver that made the silver on William B. Snow\x92s team, standing just below Donovan\x92s, look outright inconspicuous. Leaning back in luxurious comfort as the carriage came so softly along the street, holding up a parasol of black lace, overshadowing her niece, pretty little Cicely Hamlin, who sat beside her, Madame Watt, her large person dressed with costly simplicity in black with a touch of colour at the throat, square of face, with an emphatic chin, a strongly hooked nose, penetrating black eyes, surveyed the street with a commanding dignity, an assertive dignity, if the phrase may be used. Or it may have been that a touch of self-consciousness within her showed through the enveloping dignity and made you think about it. Certainly there was a final outstanding reason for self-consciousness, even in the case of Madame Watt; for on the high box in front visible for blocks above the traffic of the street, sat, in wooden perfection as in plum-coloured livery, side by side, a coachman and a footman. At Swanson\x92s the footman leaped nimbly down and stood rigid by the step while Madame heavily descended and passed across the walk and into the shop. The street lifted. Women\x92s tongues moved briskly. Trade was resumed. A pretty girl in the most wonderful carriage ever seen--a new girl, at that, bringing a stir of quickened interest to the younger set--is a magnet of considerable attracting power. Young people appeared--from nowhere, it seemed--and clustered about the carriage. Two couples hurried from the soda fountain in Donovan\x92s. The de Casselles boys were passing on their way from the Country Club courts (which were still on the old grounds, down near the lake) in blazer coats and with expensive rackets in wooden presses. Alfred Knight was out collecting for the bank, and happened to be near. Mary Ames and Jane Bellman came over from Berger\x92s, where Mary was scrutinising cauliflowers with a cool eye. It was at this moment that Henry reached the corner by Berger\x92s, paused, hopelessly, confused and torn in the swirl of success and disaster that marked this painful day, fighting down that mad impulse to talk out loud his resentments in a passionate torrent of words, saw the carriage, the girl in it and the crowd about it in one nervous glance, then, suddenly pale, lips tightly compressed, moved doggedly forward across the street. He had nearly reached the opposite kerb--not turning; with the ugly little note that was clasped in his left hand, he could not trust himself to bow, he felt a miserable sort of relief that the distance might excuse his appearing not to see; and there had to be an excuse, or it would look to some like cowardice--when an errant summer breeze wandered around the corner and seized on his straw hat. He felt it lifting; dropped his stick; reached then after both hat and stick and in doing so nearly dropped the paper. In another moment he was to be seen, desperately white, stick in one hand, a slip of paper in the other, running straight down Simpson Street after his hat, which whirled, sailed, rolled, sailed again, circled, and settled in the dust not two rods from the Watt carriage. The street, as streets, will, turned to look. Henry lunged for the hat. It lifted, and rolled a little way on. He lunged again. It whirled over and over, then rolled rapidly straight down the street, just missing the hoofs of a delivery horse, passing under Mr George F. Smith\x92s buggy without touching either horse or wheels, and sailed on. Henry fell to one knee in his second plunge. And his pallor gave place to a hot flush. Laughter came to his ears--jeering laughter. And it came unquestionably from the group about the Watt carriage. The first voices were masculine. Before he could get to his feet one or two of the girls had joined in. In something near despair of the spirit, helplessly, he looked up. The whole group, still laughing, turned away. All, that is, but one. Cicely was not laughing. She was leaning a little forward, looking right at him, not even smiling, her lips parted slightly. He was too far gone even to speculate as to what her expression meant. It fell upon him as the final blow. He ran on and on. In front of Hemple\x92s market a boy stopped the hat with his foot. Henry, trembling with rage, took it from him, muttered a word of thanks, and rushed, followed by curious eyes, around the corner to the north. 7 Humphrey found him, a little before one, at the rooms, and thought he looked ill. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a small newspaper clipping. He looked up, through his doorway, saw his friend standing in the living-room, mumbled a colourless greeting, and let his heavy eyes fall again. \x91What\x92s all this?\x92 asked Humphrey, with a rather weary, wrinkly smile. Henry got up then and came slowly into the living-room. \x91It\x92s this,\x92 he explained, in a voice that was husky and light, without its usual body. \x91This thing. I\x92ve had it quite a while.\x92 Humphrey read:-- Positively No Commission HEIRS CAN BORROW On or sell their individual estate, income or future inheritance; lowest rates; strictly confidential Heirs\x92 Loan Office. And an address. \x91What on earth are you doing with this, Hen?\x92 \x91Well, Hump, there\x92s still a little more\x92n three thousand dollars in my legacy. I got a thousand this summer, you know, and lent it to McGibbon for my interest in the paper. But my uncle said he wouldn\x92t give me a cent more until I\x92m twenty-one, in November. And so I was wondering... Look here! How much do you suppose I could get out of it from these people. They\x92re all right, you see? They\x92ve got a regular office and----\x92 \x91You\x92d just about get out with your underwear and shoes, Hen. They might leave you a necktie. What do you want it for--throw it in after the thousand?\x92 \x91Well, McGibbon\x92s broke----\x92 \x91Yes, I know. They\x92re saying on the street that Boice has got the _Gleaner_ already. Two compositors and your foreman were in our place half an hour ago asking for work. Boice went right down there. I saw him start climbing the stairs.\x92 \x91That\x92s his second trip this morning, then, Hump. He offered Bob five hundred.\x92 \x91But it ought to be worth a few thousand.\x92 \x91Sure. And except for there not being any money it\x92s going great. You\x92d be surprised! You know it\x92s often that way. Bob says many a promising business has gone under just because they didn\x92t have the money to tide it over a tight place. But he\x92s getting the circulation. You\x92ve no idea! And when you get that you\x92re bound to get the advertisers. Sooner or later. Bob says they just have to fall in line.\x92 Humphrey appeared to be only half listening to this eager little torrent of words. He deliberately filled his pipe; then moved over to a window and gazed soberly out at the back yard of the parsonage. Henry, moody again, was staring at the advertisement, fairly hypnotising himself with it. \x91Great to think of the Old Man having to climb those stairs twice,\x92 Humphrey remarked, without turning. Then: \x91Even with all the trouble you\x92re going through, Hen, you\x92re lucky not to be working for Boice. He does wear on one.\x92 He smoked the pipe out. Then, brow\x92s knit, his long swarthy face wrinkled deeply with thought, he walked slowly over to the door of his own bedroom and leaned there, studying the interior. \x91There\x92s three thousand dollars\x92 worth of books in here,\x92 he remarked. \x91Or close to it. Even at second hand they\x92d fetch something. You see, it\x92s really a well built, pretty complete little scientific library. Now come downstairs.\x92 He had to say it again: \x91Come on downstairs.\x92 Henry followed, then; hardly aware of the oddity of Humphrey\x92s actions. In the half-light that sifted dustily in through the high windows, the metal lathes, large and small, the tool benches, the two large reels of piano wire, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine jars, the round objects that might have been electric motors hanging by twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels of various sizes mounted in frames, some with wooden handles at one side, the big box kites and the wood-and-silk planes stacked at one end of the room, the gas engine mounted at the other end, the water motor in a corner, the wheels, shafts and belting overhead--all were indistinct, ghostly. And all were covered with dust. \x91See!\x92 Humphrey waved his pipe. \x91I\x92ve done no work here for six weeks. And I shan\x92t do any for a good while. I can\x92t. It takes leisure--long-evenings--Sundays when you aren\x92t disturbed by a soul. And at that it means years and years, working as I\x92ve had to. You know, getting out the _Voice_ every week. You know how it\x92s been with me, Hen. People are going to fly some day, Hen. As sure as we\x92re walking now. Pretty soon. Chanute--Langley--they know! Those are Chanute gliders over there. By the kites. I\x92ve never told you; I\x92ve worked with \x91em, moonlight nights, from the sand-dunes away up the beach. I\x92ve got some locked in an old boat-house up there, Hen\x92--he stood, very tall, a reminiscent, almost eager light in eyes that had been dull of late, a gaunt strong hand resting affectionately on a gyroscope--\x91I\x92ve flown over six hundred feet! Myself! Gliding, of course. Got an awful ducking, but I did it. \x91But it takes money, Hen. I\x92ve thought I could be an inventor and do my job besides. Maybe I could. Maybe some day I\x92ll succeed at it. But I\x92ve just come to see what it needs. Material, workmen, time--Hen, you\x92ve got to have a real shop and a real pay-roll to do it right. And... \x91Oh, I\x92m not telling you the truth, Hen! Not the real truth!\x92 He took to walking around now, making angular gestures. Henry, watching him, coming slowly alive now to the complex life that was flowing around him, found himself confronted by a new, disturbed Humphrey. He had, during the year and more of their friendship, taken him for granted as an older, steadier influence, had leaned on him more than he knew. He had been a rock for the erratic Henry to cling to in the confusing, unstable swirl of life. \x91Hen\x92--Humphrey turned on him--\x91you don\x92t know, but I\x92m going to be married.\x92 Henry\x92s jaw sagged. \x91It\x92s Mildred, of course. \x91It\x92s going to be hard on the little woman, Hen. She\x92s got to get her divorce. She can\x92t take money from her husband, of course; and she\x92s only got a little. She\x92ll need me.\x92 His voice grew a thought unsteady; he waved his pipe, as if to indicate and explain the machinery. \x91We\x92ve got to strike out--take the plunge--you know, make a little money. It\x92s occurred to me... This machinery\x92s worth more than the library, in a pinch. And I\x92ve got two bonds left. Just two. They\x92re money, of course...... Hen, you said you _lent_ that thousand to McGibbon?\x92 Henry nodded. \x91He gave me his note.\x92 \x91Let\x92s see it.\x92 Henry ran up the stairs, and returned with a pasteboard box file, which, not without a momentary touch of pride in his quite new business sense, he handed to his friend. Humphrey glanced at the carefully printed-out phrase on the back--\x91Henry Calverly, 3rd. Business Affairs\x92--but did not smile. He opened it and ran through the indexed leaves. It appeared to be empty. \x91Look under \x93Me,\x94\x92 said Henry. The note was there. \x91For three months,\x92 Humphrey mused aloud. Then he smiled. There was a whimsical touch in Humphrey that his few friends knew and loved. Even in this serious crisis it did not desert him. I believe it was even stronger then. \x91Hen,\x92 he said, \x91got a quarter?\x92 The smile seemed to restore the rock that Henry had lately clung to. He found himself returning the smile, faintly but with a growing warmth. He replied, \x91Just about.\x92 \x91Match me!\x92 cried Humphrey. \x91What for?\x92 \x91To settle a very important point. Somebody\x92s name has got to come first. Best two out of three.\x92 \x91But I don\x92t----\x92 \x91Match me! No--it\x92s mine!... Now I\x92ll match you--mine again! I win. Well--that\x92s settled!\x92 \x91What\x92s settled? I don\x92t-----\x92 Humphrey sat on a tool bench; swung his legs; grinned. \x91Life moves on, Hen,\x92 he said. \x91It\x92s a dramatic old world.\x92 And Henry, puzzled, looking at him, laughed excitedly. 8 It was two o\x92clock in the afternoon. Simpson Street was quiet after the brisk business of the morning. The air quivered up from the pavement in the still heat. The occasional people about the street moved slowly. The collars of the few visible tradesmen were soft rags around their necks and they mopped red faces with saturated handkerchiefs. The morning breeze had died; the afternoon breeze would drift in at four o\x92clock or so; until which time Sunbury ladies took their naps and Sunbury business men dozed at their desks. Saturday closing had not made much headway at this period, though the still novel game of golf was beginning to work its mighty change in small-town life. Through this calm scene, absorbed in their affairs, unaware of the heat, strode Humphrey and Henry--down past the long hotel veranda, where the yellow rocking chairs stood in endless empty rows, past Swanson\x92s and Donovan\x92s and Jackson\x92s book store to the meat market and then, rapidly, up the long stairway. They found McGibbon with his long legs stretched out under his desk, hands deep in pockets, thin face lined and weary, but eyes nervously bright as always. He was in his shirt-sleeves, of course. His drab brown hair seemed a little longer and even more ragged than usual where it met his wilted collar. But he grinned at them, and waved a long hand. \x91My God!\x92 he cried, \x91but it\x92s good to see a human face. Look!\x92 His hand swept around, indicating the dusty, deserted desks and the open press-room door. It was still out there; not a man hummed or whistled as he clicked type into his stick, not one of the four job presses rumbled out its cheerful drone of industry. \x91Rats all gone!\x92 McGibbon added. \x91But the Caliph was up again.\x92 \x91Yes,\x92 Henry, who found himself suddenly and deeply moved, breathed softly, \x91we know.\x92 \x91Came up a hundred. He\x92ll pay six hundred now. For all this. An actual investment of more\x92n four thousand.\x92 The hand waved again. \x91It\x92s amusing. He doesn\x92t know I\x92m on to him. You see the old fox\x92s been nosing around to get up a petition to throw me into involuntary bankruptcy, but he can\x92t find any creditors. Has to be five hundred dollars, you know.\x92 \x91What did you say to him?\x92 asked Humphrey, thoughtfully. \x91Showed him out. Second time to-day. It was a hard climb for him, too. He did puff some.\x92 Humphrey slowly drew a large envelope from an inner pocket and laid it on the table at his elbow. McGibbon eyed it alertly. \x91Here!\x92 he said, his hand moving up toward the row of four or five cigars that projected from a vest pocket, \x91smoke up, you fellows.\x92 Henry shook his head. Humphrey drew out his pipe; then raised his head, and said quietly:-- \x91Listen!\x92 There came the unmistakable sound of heavy feet on the stairs. Steadily, step by step, a slowly moving body mounted. Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice, breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of his roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy watch chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently. Boice\x92s eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey. \x91What are you doing here?\x92 he asked, between puffs. Humphrey\x92s only reply was a slight impatient gesture. \x91You oughta be at your desk.\x92 Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was the only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph of Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had made him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate rival who had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just climbed the stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time. He came straight to business. \x91Have you decided to accept my offer?\x92 \x91Sit down,\x92 said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot. Boice ignored this final bit of insolence. \x91Have you decided to accept my offer?\x92 \x91Well\x92--McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands--\x91I\x92ve decided nothing, but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.\x92 \x91Then I suggest that you accept it now.\x92 \x91Well----\x92 the hands went out again. \x91Wait a moment,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91I think you had better go back to the office,\x92 Boice broke in. \x91Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But first I have business here.\x92 \x91_You_ have business!\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 Humphrey opened the large envelope. \x91Here, McGibbon, is your note to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.\x92 Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon\x92s legs with an, \x91I beg your pardon!\x92 and dropped the pieces in the waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and red ink. \x91Here,\x92 he concluded, \x91is a four per cent, railway bond that stands to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That\x92s our price for the _Gleaner_.\x92 McGibbon\x92s nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey\x92s hands as if fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons, looked up and remarked:-- \x91The paper\x92s yours.\x92 \x91Then, Mr Boice,\x92 said Humphrey, \x91the next issue of the _Gleaner_ will be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to will run their course.\x92 But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just disappearing through the doorway.\x92 9 The sunlight was streaming in through the living-room of the barn back of the old Parmenter place. Outside the maple leaves were rustling gently. Through the quiet air came the slow booming of the First Presbyterian bell across the block. From greater distances came the higher pitched bell of the Baptist Church, down on Filbert Avenue, and the faint note from the Second Presbyterian over on the West Side, across the tracks. Humphrey had made coffee and toast. They sat at an end of the centre table. Humphrey in bath-robe and slippers, Henry fully dressed in his blue serge suit, neat silk four-in-hand tie, stiff white collar and carefully polished shoes. \x91Where are you going with all that?\x92 Humphrey asked. Henry hesitated; flushed a little. \x91To church,\x92 he finally replied. Humphrey\x92s surprise was real. There had been a time, before they came to know each other, when the boy had sung bass in the quartet at the Second Presbyterian. But since that period he had not been a church-goer. Henry had been quiet all evening, and now this morning. He seemed all boxed up within himself. Preoccupied. As if the triumph over old Boice had merely opened up the way to new responsibilities. Which, for that matter, was just what it had done--done to both of them. Humphrey, not being given to prying, would have let the subject drop here, had not Henry surprised him by breaking hotly forth into words. \x91It\x92s my big fight, Hump!\x92 he was saying now. \x91Don\x92t you see! This town. All they say. Look here!\x92 He laid a rumpled bit of paper on the table. As if he had been holding it ready in his hand.\x92 \x91Oh, that letter,\x92 said Humphrey. \x91Yes. It\x92s what I\x92ve got to fight. And I\x92ve got to win. Don\x92t you see?\x92 \x91Yes,\x92 Humphrey replied gravely, \x91I see.\x92 \x91I think,\x92 said Henry, \x91it\x92s being in love that\x92s going to help me. We\x92ve got to hold our heads up, you and I. Build the _Gleaner_ into a real property. Win confidence. And there mustn\x92t be any doubt. The way we step out and fight, you know. I\x92ve got to stand with you.\x92 Humphrey\x92s eyes strayed to the sunlit window. He suppressed a little sigh. \x91This note\x92s right enough, in a way,\x92 Henry went on. \x91It wouldn\x92t be fair to compromise her.\x92 He leaned earnestly over the table. \x91It\x92s really a hopeless love. I know that, Hump. But it isn\x92t like the others.\x92 It makes me feel ashamed of them. All of them. I\x92ve got to show her, or at least show myself, that it\x92s this love that has made a man of me. Without asking anything, you know.\x92 Humphrey listened in silence as the talk ran on. The boy was changing, no question about that. Even back of the romantic strain that was colouring his attitude, the suggestion of pose in it, there was real evidence of this change. At least his fighting blood was up. And he was taking punishment. Sitting there sipping his coffee, Humphrey, half listening, soberly considered his younger friend. Henry was distinctly odd, a square peg in a round world. He was capable of curiously outrageous acts, yet most of them seemed to arise from a downright inability to sense the common attitude, to feel with his fellows. He could be heedless, neglectful, self-centred; but Humphrey had never found meanness or unkindness in him. And he was capable of a passionate generosity. He had, indeed, for Humphrey, the fascination that an erratic and ingenuous but gifted person often exerts on older, steadier natures. You could be angry at him; but you couldn\x92t get over the feeling that you had to take care of him. And it always seemed, even when he was out and out exasperating, that the thing that was the matter with him was the very quality that underlay his astonishing gifts; that he was really different from others; the difference ran all through, from his unexpected, rather self-centred ways of acting and reacting clear up to the fact that he could write what other people couldn\x92t write. \x91If they could,\x92 thought Humphrey now, shrewdly, \x91very likely they\x92d be different too.\x92 Take this business of dressing up like a born suburbanite and going to church. It was something of a romantic gesture, But that wasn\x92t all it was. The fight was real, whatever unexpected things it might lead him to do from day to day. Herbert de Casselles, wooden-faced, dressed impeccably in frock coat, heavy \x91Ascot\x92 tie, gray striped trousers perfectly creased, (Henry had never owned a frock coat) ushered him half-way down the long aisle to a seat in Mrs Ellen F. Wilson\x92s pew. He felt eyes on him as he walked, imagined whispers, and set his face doggedly against them all. He had set out in a sort of fervor; but now the thing was harder to do than he had imagined. The people looked cold and hostile. It was to be a long fight. He might never win. The more successful he might come to be, the more some of them would hate him and fight him down... It was queer, Herb de Casselles ushering him. The organist slid on to his seat, up in the organ loft behind the pulpit; spread out his music and turned up the corners; pulled and pushed on stops and couplers; glanced up into his narrow mirror; adjusted his tie; fussed again with the stops; began to play. Henry sat up stiffly, even boldly, and looked about. Across the church, in a pew near the front, sat the Watts: the Senator, on the aisle, looking curiously insignificant with his meek, red face and his little, slightly askew chin beard; Madame Watt sitting wide and high over him, like a stout hawk, chin up, nose down, beady eyes fixed firmly on the pulpit; Cicely Hamlin almost fragile beside her, eyes downcast--or was she looking at the hymns? When Cicely was talking, with her nervous eagerness, her quick smile, her almost Frenchy gestures, she seemed gay. When in repose, as now, her delicate sensitiveness, her slightly sad expression, were evident, even to Henry. Made him feel in the closing scene of _The Prisoner of Zenda_, where he was bidding the Princess who could never be his a last farewell; the mere sight of her thrilled him with a deep romantic sorrow. Through the prayers, the announcements, the choir numbers and collection, his sacrificial mood grew more and more intense. It was something of a question whether he could hide his emotion before all these hostile people. The long fight ahead to rebuild his name in the village loomed larger and larger, began to take on an aspect that was almost terrifying. For the first time to-day he felt weakness but she made him feel something as Sothem had made in his heart. He sat very quiet, hands clenched on his knees, and unconsciously thrust out his chin a little. When the doxology was sung and his head was bowed for the benediction, he had to struggle with a mad impulse to rush out, run down the aisle while people were picking up their hats and things. The thing to do, of course, was to take his time, be natural, move out with the rest. This he did, blazing with self-consciousness, his chin forward. It was difficult. Several persons--older persons, who had known his mother--stopped him and congratulated him on the brilliant work he was doing. This in the midst of the unuttered hostility that seemed like hundreds of little barbed darts penetrating his skin from every side. He could only blush and mumble. Elderly, innocent Mrs Bedford of Filbert Avenue actually introduced him to her nieces from Boston as a young man of whom all Sunbury was proud. He had to blush and mumble here for a long time, while the line of people crowded decorously past. At last he got to the door. Stiffly raising his hat as one or two groups of young people recognised him, he moved out to the sidewalk. There he raised his eyes. They met, for a fleeting instant, but squarely, over Herb de Casselles\x92 shoulder, the dark eyes of Cicely Hamlin. She was sitting on the little forward seat in the black-and-plum Victoria. Madame Watt was settling herself in the back seat. The Senator was stepping in. The plum-coloured footman stood stiffly by. The plum-coloured driver sat stiffly on the box. Herb de Casselles turned, with a wry smile. Henry raised his hat, bit his lip, hesitated, hurried on. Then he heard her voice. \x91Oh, Mr Calverly!\x92 He had to turn back. He knew he was fiery red. He knew, too, that in this state of tortured bewilderment he couldn\x92t trust his tongue for a moment. Cicely leaned out, with outstretched hand. He had to take it. The thrill the momentary touch of it gave, him but added a wrench to the torture. Then the Senator\x92s hand had to be taken; finally Madame\x92s. His pulse was racing; pounding at his temples. What did all this mean! Cicely, her own colour up a little, speaking quickly, her face lighting up, her hands moving, cried:-- \x91Oh, Mr Calverly! We heard this morning that the _Gleaner_ has failed and that Mr Boice has it and we aren\x92t to see your stories any more.\x92 \x91No,\x92 said Henry, a faint touch of assurance appearing in his heart, mind, voice, \x91that isn\x92t so. Mr Boice hasn\x92t got it. We\x92ve got it--Humphrey Weaver and I.\x92 \x91You mean you have purchased it?\x92 This from the Senator. \x91Yay-ah, We bought it yesterday.\x92 \x91No!\x92 cried Cicely. \x91Really?\x92 \x91Yay-ah. We bought it.\x92 \x91Then,\x92 commented the Senator, \x91you must permit me indeed to congratulate you. It is unusual to find business acumen and enterprise combined with such a literary talent as yours.\x92 This was pleasing, if stilted. It was beginning to be possible for Henry to smile. Then Cicely clinched matters. \x91You promised to come and read me the others, Mr Calverly. Oh, but you did! You must come. Really! Let me see--I know I shall be at home to-morrow evening.\x92 Then, for a moment, Cicely seemed to falter. She turned questioningly to her aunt. Madame Watt certainly knew the situation. She had heard Henry discussed in relation to the Mamie Wilcox incident. She knew how high feeling was running in the village. Just what her motives were, I cannot say. Perhaps it was her tendency to make her own decisions and if possible to make different decisions from those of the folk about her. The instinct to stand out aggressively in all matters was strong within her. And she liked Henry. The flare of extreme individuality in him probably reached her and touched a curiously different strain of extreme individuality within herself. She hated sheep. Henry was not a sheep. As for Cicely\x92s part of it, I know she had been thrilled when Henry read her the first ten stories. She had read more than the Sunbury girls; and she saw more in his oddities than they were capable of seeing. To fail in any degree to conform to the prevailing customs and thought was to be ridiculous in Sunbury. But she had no more forgotten the jeers that had followed Henry from this very carriage as he chased his hat down Simpson Street the preceding day than had Henry himself. Nor had she forgotten that Herbert de Casselles had been one of that unkind group. And as she certainly knew what she was about, despite her impulsiveness, I prefer to think that her action was deliberately kind and deliberately brave. \x91Come to dinner,\x92 said Madame Watt shortly but with a sort of rough cordiality. \x91Seven o\x92clock. To-morrow evening. Informal dress. All right, Watson.\x92 Cicely settled back, her eyes bright; but gave Henry only the same suddenly impersonal little nod of good-bye that she gave Herbert de Casselles. The footman leaped to the box. The remarkable carriage rolled luxuriously away on its rubber tyres. Henry turned, grinning in foolish happiness, on the young man in the frock coat who had not been asked to dinner. \x91Walking up toward Simpson, Herb?\x92 he asked. \x91Me--why--no, I\x92m going this way.\x92 And Herb pointed hurriedly southward. \x91Well--so long!\x92 said Henry, and headed northward. The warm sunlight filtered down through the dense foliage. Birds twittered up there. The church procession moving slowly along was brightly dressed; pleasant to see. Henry, head up, light of foot, smiling easily when this or that person, after a moment\x92s hesitation, bowed to him, listened to the birds, expanded his chest in answer to the mellowing sunshine, and gave way, with a fresh little thrill, to the thought:-- \x91I must buy a frock coat for to-morrow night.\x92 VIII--THIS BUD OF LOVE 1 |It was mid-August and twenty minutes to eight in the evening. The double rows of maples threw spreading shadows over the pavement, sidewalk and lawns of Hazel Avenue. From dim houses, set far back amid trees and shrubs, giving a homy village quality to the darkness, came through screened doors and curtained \x91bay\x92 windows the yellow glow of oil lamps and the whiter shine of electric lights. Here and there a porch light softly illuminated a group of young people; their chatter and laughter, with perhaps a snatch of song, floating pleasantly out on the soft evening air. Around on a side street, sounding faintly, a youthful banjoist with soft fingers and inadequate technique was struggling with _The March Past_. Moving in a curious, rather jerky manner along the street, now walking swiftly, nervously, now hesitating, even stopping, in some shadowy spot, came a youth of twenty (going on twenty-one). He wore--though all these details were hardly distinguishable even in the patches of light at the street corners, where arc lamps sputtered whitely--neatly pressed white trousers, a \x91sack\x92 coat of blue serge, a five-dollar straw hat, silk socks of a pattern and a silken \x91four-in-hand\x92 tie. He carried a cane of thin bamboo that he whipped and flicked at the grass and rattled lightly along the occasional picket fence except when he was fussing at the light growth on his upper lip. Under his left arm was a square package that any girl of Sunbury would have recognised instantly, even in the shadows, as a two-pound box of Devoe\x92s chocolates. If you had chanced to be a resident of Sunbury at this period you would have known that the youth was Henry Calverly, 3rd. Though you might have had no means of knowing that he was about to \x91call\x92 on Cicely Hamlin. Or, except perhaps from his somewhat spasmodic locomotion, that he was in a state of considerable nervous excitement. Not that Henry hadn\x92t called on many girls in his day. He had. But he had called only once before on Cicely (the other time had been that invitation to dinner for which her aunt was really responsible) and had then, in a burning glow of temperament, read her his stories! How he had read! And read! And read! Until midnight and after. She had been enthusiastic, too. But he wasn\x92t in a glow now. Certain small incidents had lately brought him to the belief that Cicely Hamlin lacked the pairing-off instinct so common among the young of Sunbury. She had been extra nice to him; true. But the fact stood that she was not \x91going with\x92 him. Not in the Sunbury sense of the phrase. A baffling, disturbing aura of impersonally pleasant feeling held him at a distance. So he was just a young fellow setting forth, with chocolates, to call on a girl. A girl who could be extra nice to you and then go out of her way to maintain pleasant acquaintance with the others, your rivals, your enemies. Almost as if she felt she had been a little too nice and wished to strike a balance; at least he had thought of that. A girl who had been reared strangely in foreign convents; who didn\x92t know _The Spanish Cavalier_ or _Seeing Nellie Home_ or _Solomon Levi_, yet did know, strangely, that the principal theme in Dvorak\x92s extremely new \x91New World\x92 symphony was derived from _Swing Low, Sweet Chariot_ (which illuminating fact had stirred Henry to buy, regardless, the complete piano score of that symphony and struggle to pick out the themes on Humphrey\x92s piano at the rooms). A girl who had never seen De Wolf Hopper in _Wang_, or the Bostonians in _Robin Hood_, or Sothem in The Prisoner of Zenda, or Maude Adams or Ethel Barrymore or _anything_. A girl who had none of the direct, free and easy ways of the village young; you couldn\x92t have started a rough-house with her--mussed her hair, or galloped her in the two-step. A girl who wasn\x92t stuck up, or anything like that, who seemed actually shy at times, yet subtly repressed you, made you wish you could talk like the fellow\x92s that had gone to Harvard. In view of these rather remarkable facts I think it really was a tribute to Cicely Hamlin that the many discussions of her as a conspicuous addition to the youngest set had boiled down to the single descriptive adjective, \x91tactful.\x92 Though the characterisation seems not altogether happy; for the word, to me, connotes something of conscious skill and management--as my Crabb put it: \x91TACTFUL. See Diplomatic\x92--and Cicely was not, certainly not in those days, a manager. Henry, muttered softly, as he walked. \x91I\x92ll hand it to her when she comes in. \x91No, she\x92ll shake hands and it might get in the way. \x91Put it on the table--that\x92s the thing!--on a corner where she\x92ll see it. \x91Then some time when we can\x92t think of anything to talk about, I\x92ll say--\x93Thought you might like a few chocolates.\x94 Sorta offhand. Prevent there being a lull in the conversation. \x91Better begin calling her Cicely.\x92 \x91Why not? Shucks! Can\x92t go on with \x93You\x94 and \x93Say!\x94 Why can\x92t I just do it naturally? The way Herb would, or Elbow, or those fellows. \x91\x93How\x92d\x92 you do, Cicely! Come on, let\x92s take a walk.\x94 \x91No. \x93Good-evening, Cicely. I thought maybe you\x92d like to take a walk. There\x92s a moonrise over the lake about half-past eight.\x94 That\x92s better. \x91Wonder if Herb\x92ll be there. He\x92d hardly think to come so early, though. Be all right if I can get her away from the house by eight.\x92 He paused, held up his watch to the light from the corner, then rushed on. \x91Maybe she\x92d ask me to sit him out, anyway.\x92 But his lips clamped shut on this. It was just the sort of thing Cicely wouldn\x92t do. He knew it. \x91What if she won\x92t go out!\x92 This sudden thought brought bitterness. A snicker had run its course about town--in his eager self-absorption he had wholly forgotten--when Alfred Knight, confident in an engagement to call, had hired a horse and buggy at McAllister\x92s. The matter of an evening drive _a deux_ had been referred to Cicely\x92s aunt. As a result the horse had stood hitched outside more than two hours only to be driven back to the livery, stable by the gloomy Al. \x91Shucks, though! Al\x92s a fish! Don\x92t blame her!\x92 He walked stiffly in among the trees and shrubs of the old Dexter Smith place and mounted the rather imposing front steps. That purchase of the Dexter Smith place was typical of Madame Watt at the time. She was riding high. She had money. Two acres of lawn, fine old trees, a great square house of Milwaukee brick, high spacious rooms with elaborately moulded plaster ceilings and a built-on conservatory and a barn that you could keep half a dozen carriages in! It was one of only four or five houses in Sunbury that the _Voice_ and the _Gleaner_ rejoiced to call \x91mansions.\x92 And it was the only one that could have been bought. The William B. Snows, like the Jenkinses and the de Casselles (I don\x92t know if it has been explained before that the accepted local pronunciation was Dekasells,) lived in theirs. And even after the elder Dexter Smith died Mrs Smith would hardly have sold the place if the children hadn\x92t nagged her into it. Young Dex wanted to go to New York. And at that it was understood that Madame Watt paid two prices. 2 A uniformed butler showed Henry into the room that he would have called the front parlour. Though there was another much like it across the wide hall. There was a \x91back parlour,\x92 with porti\xE8res between. Out there, he knew, between centre table and fireplace, the Senator and Madame might even now be sitting. He listened, on the edge of a huge plush and walnut chair, for the rustle of the Senator\x92s paper, or Madame\x92s deep, always startling voice. There was no sound. Save that somewhere upstairs, far off, a door opened; then footsteps very faint. And silence again. Henry looked, fighting down misgivings, at the heavily framed oil paintings on the wall. One, of a life-boat going out through mountainous waves to a wreck, he had always heard was remarkably fine. Fastened over the bow of the boat was a bit of real rope that had provoked critical controversy when the picture was first exhibited in Chicago. He glanced down, discovered the box of chocolates on his knees, and hurriedly placed it on the corner of the inevitable centre table. Then he fussed nervously with his moustache; adjusted his tie, wondering if the stick pin should be higher; pulled down his cuffs; and sat up stiffly again. \x91Maybe she ain\x92t home,\x92 he thought weakly. \x91That fella said he\x92d see.\x92 \x91Maybe I oughta\x92ve asked if she\x92d be in.\x92 The silence deepened, spread, settled about him. He wished she would come down. There was danger, he knew, that his few painfully thought-out conversational openings would leave him. He would be an embarrassed, quite speechless young man. For he was as capable, even now, at twenty, almost at twenty-one, of speechlessness as of volubility. Either might happen to him, at any moment, from the smallest, least foreseeable of causes. And there was something oppressive about the stillness of this cavernous old house with its sound-proof partitions and its distances. And that silent machine of a butler. It wasn\x92t like calling at Martha Caldwell\x92s, in the old days, where you could hear the Swedish cook crashing around in the kitchen and Martha moving around upstairs before she came down. Here you wouldn\x92t so much as know there was a kitchen. Then, suddenly, sharp as a blow out of the stillness came a series of sounds that froze the marrow in his bones, made him rigid on the edge of that plush chair, his lips parted, his eyes staring, wrestling with an impulse to dash out of the house; with another impulse to cough, or shout, or play the piano, in some mad way to announce himself, yet continuing to sit like a carved idol, in the grip of a paralysis of the faculties. There is nothing more painful to the young than the occasional discovery, through the mask of social reticence, that the old have their weak or violent moments. Gossip, yes! But gossip rests lightly and briefly in young ears. Henry had heard the Watts slyly ridiculed. There were whispers, of course. Madame\x92s career as a French countess--well, naturally Sunbury wondered. And the long obscurity from which she had rescued Senator Watt raised questions about that very quiet little man. So often men in political life were tempted off the primly beaten track. And Henry, like the other young people, had grinned in awed delight over the tale that Madame swore at her servants. That was before he had so much as spoken to her niece. And it had little or no effect on his attitude toward Madame herself when he met her. She had at once taken her place in the compartment of his thoughts reserved from earliest memory for his elders, whose word was (at least in honest theory) law and to whom one looked up with diffidence and a genuine if somewhat automatic respect. The first of the disturbing sounds was Madame\x92s voice, far-off but ringing strong. Then a door opened--it must have been the dining-room door; not the wide one that opened into the great front hall, but the other, at the farther end of the \x91back parlour.\x92 There was a brief lull. A voice could be heard, though--a man\x92s voice, low-pitched, deprecatory. Then Madame\x92s again. And stranger noises. The man\x92s voice cried out in quick protest; there was a rustle and then a crash like breaking china. The Senator, hurrying a little, yet with a sort of dignity, walked out into the hall. Henry could see him, first between the porti\xE8res as he left the room, then as he passed the hall door. There was a rush and a torrent of passionately angry words from the other room. An object--it appeared to be a paper weight or ornament--came hurtling out into the hall. The Senator, who had apparently gone to the closet by the door for his hat and stick--for he came back into the hall with them--stepped back just in time to avoid being struck. The object fell on the stair, landing with the sound of solid metal. \x91You come back here!\x92 Madame\x92s voice. \x91I will not come back until you have had time to return to your senses,\x92 replied the Senator. He looked very small. He was always stilted in speech; Humphrey had said that he talked like the _Congressional Record_. \x91This is a disgraceful scene. If you have the slightest regard for my good name or your own you will at least make an effort to compose yourself. Some one might be at the door at this moment. You are a violent, ungoverned woman, and I am ashamed of you.\x92 \x91And you\x92--she was almost screaming now--\x91are the man who was glad to marry me.\x92 He ignored this. \x91If any one asks for me, I shall be at the Sunbury Club.\x92 \x91Going to drink again, are you?\x92 \x91I think not.\x92 \x91If you do, you needn\x92t come back. Do you hear? You needn\x92t come back!\x92 He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door. She started to follow. She did come as far as the porti\xE8res. Henry had a glimpse of her, her face red and distorted. She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could hear sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a brief silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person--even in her tantrums she had presence--and went up the stairs, pausing on the landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died out on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed faintly shut. Silence again. Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair. \x91I must relax,\x92 he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A. He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples were pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver. It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; a woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house with her. He might have to try to talk with her. He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler had taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless she knew. Did she know? Had she heard? Possibly not. Henry got slowly, indecisively up and wandered to the piano; stood leaning on it. His eyes filled. All at once, in his mind\x92s eye, he could see Cicely. Particularly the sensitive mouth. And the alert brown eyes. And the pretty way her eyebrows moved when she spoke or smiled or listened--always with a flattering attention--to what you were saying. He brought a clenched fist down softly on the piano. 3 \x91Oh,\x92 cried the voice of Cicely--\x91there you are! How nice of you to come!\x92 She was standing--for a moment--in the doorway. White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he stared at her. She didn\x92t know! Surely she didn\x92t--not with that bright smile. __ She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment--neatly fitting dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were then necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and little bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears to a knot low on the neck. \x91I brought some candy,\x92 he cried fiercely. \x91There! On the table!\x92 She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box. \x91How awfully nice of you... You\x92ll have some?\x92 \x91No. I don\x92t eat candy. I was thinking of--I want to get you out--Come on, let\x92s take a walk!\x92 She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn\x92t know! She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at times. But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy self-confidence. No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite a success as Cicely had made here from her first day without acquiring at least the beginnings of self-confidence. It was a success that had forced Elbow Jenkins and Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and persist in fighting over her. It permitted her, even in a village where social conformity was the breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. Such as allowing herself to be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly. So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate. He said it again, breathlessly:-- \x91I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.\x92 \x91Well\x92--still that smile--\x91why don\x92t you?\x92 But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on. \x91It\x92s a fine evening. And the moon\x92ll be coming up.\x92 \x91I\x92ll get my sweater,\x92 she said quietly, and went out to the hall. She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater--he, hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt had marched stiffly to that same closet--when Madame Watt came down the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard. She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a sort of smile. \x91Oh, howdadoo!\x92 she remarked, toward Henry. Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a greeting, she broke in on him with this:--\x91I didn\x92t know you were here. Did you just come?\x92 Henry\x92s eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good one. But he didn\x92t know how. Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head. During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a secret. \x91We thought of taking a little walk,\x92 said Cicely. Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: \x91Have a good time!\x92 The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt. Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame\x92s voice boomed after them. She was hurrying back through the hall. \x91By the way,\x92 she said, with a frowning, determined manner, \x91we are having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely\x92s friends. Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely\x92ll be glad to have you. Informal--don\x92t bother to dress.\x92 \x91Oh, yes!\x92 cried Cicely, looking at her aunt. \x91I--Im sure I\x92d be delighted,\x92 said Henry heavily. Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the lake. There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be the theatre. They hadn\x92t meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled Henry\x92s thoughts. But Cicely\x92s smile, as she stood by the table, nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head--the picture stood out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it was like a deafening noise in his brain. 4 He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street. Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise. He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her delicate profile. He thought: \x91How could she ask me? They wouldn\x92t like it, her friends. Mary Ames mightn\x92t want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She\x92s been nice to me. I mustn\x92t make it hard for her. And she mustn\x92t know about tonight. Not ever.\x92 Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there would be others. And she would have to live against that background, keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her mouth; when she didn\x92t know you were looking. They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing over the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this and that--he hardly knew what. He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail. \x91Oh,\x92 he broke out--\x91about Saturday. I forgot. I can\x92t come.\x92 \x91Oh, but please----\x92 \x91No. Awfully busy. You\x92ve no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought the _Gleaner_. I told you, didn\x92t I? It\x92s a big responsibility--getting the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew about before. I don\x92t believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of accounts and things. Hump\x92s at it all the time--nights and everything. You see we\x92ve got to make the paper pay. We\x92ve _got_ to! It was losing, when Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn\x92t advertise. And now we have to get the advertising back.\x92 If we fail in that, we\x92ll go under, just as he did...\x92 Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn\x92t know how transparent he was. She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the slowly spreading glow in the east. \x91I\x92m so glad aunt asked you,\x92 she said gravely. \x91I wanted you to come. I want you to know. Won\x92t you, please?\x92 He looked at her, but she didn\x92t turn. There was more behind her words. Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she didn\x92t say the rest of it. Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed to the surface. \x91You know I mustn\x92t come!\x92 he cried. \x91No,\x92 said she, with that deliberate gravity. \x91I don\x92t know that. I think you should.\x92 \x91I can\x92t. You don\x92t understand. They wouldn\x92t like it, my being there. They talk about me. They don\x92t speak to me, even.\x92 \x91Then oughtn\x92t you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn\x92t true?\x92 \x91But that will just make it hard for you.\x92 She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she replied with:-- \x91I don\x92t think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me here. I\x92m having a lovely time. But it isn\x92t as if I had always lived here and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been different. I\x92ve known a good many different kinds of people, and I\x92ve had to think for myself a good deal. No, I\x92d like you to come. If you don\x92t come---don\x92t you see?--you\x92re putting me with them. You\x92re making me mean and petty. I don\x92t want to be that way. If--if I\x92m to see you at all, they must know it.\x92 \x91Perhaps, then,\x92 he muttered, \x91you\x92d better not see me at all.\x92 \x91Please!\x92 \x91Well, I know; but--\x92 \x91No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You\x92re more interesting than any of them.\x92 At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly, finished what she had to say. \x91I think you\x92re a genius. I think you\x92re going to be famous. It\x92s--it\x92s exciting to see the way you write stories.... Wait, please! I\x92m going to tell you the rest of it. Now that we\x92re talking it out, I think I\x92ve got to. It was aunt who didn\x92t want to ask you. She likes you, but she thought--well, she thought it might be awkward, and--and hard for you. I told her what I\x92ve told you, that I\x92ve either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all. And now that she has asked you--don\x92t you see, it\x92s the way I wanted it all along.\x92 There wasn\x92t another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made quite that speech. She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a vignetted halo about her small head. Henry, staring, his hands clenched at his sides, broke out with:-- \x91I love you!\x92 \x91Oh--h!\x92 she breathed. \x91Please!\x92 Words came from him, a jumble of words. About his hopes, the few thousand dollars that would be his on the seventh of November, when he would be twenty-one, the wonderful stories he would write, with her for inspiration. Inwardly he was in a panic. He hadn\x92t dreamed of saying such a thing. Never before, in all his little philanderings had he let go like this, never had he felt the glow of mad catastrophe that now seemed to be consuming him. Oh, once perhaps--something of it--years back--when he had believed he was in love with Ernestine Lambert. But that had been in another era. And it hadn\x92t gone so deep as this. \x91Anyway\x92--he heard her saying, in a rather tired voice--\x91anyway--it makes it hard, of course--you shouldn\x92t have said that--\x92 \x91Oh, I _am_ making it hard! And I meant to----\x92 \x91--anyway, I think you\x92d better come. Unless it would be too hard for you.\x92 There was a long silence. Then Henry, his forehead wet with sweat, his feet braced apart, his hands gripping the rail as if he were holding for his life, said, with a sudden quiet that she found a little disconcerting:-- \x91All right. I\x92ll come.... Your aunt said a quarter past six, didn\x92t she?\x92 \x91No, six.\x92 5 Madame Watt appropriated Henry the moment he entered her door on Saturday evening. She was, despite her talk of offhand summer informality, clad in an impressive costume with a great deal of lace and the shimmer of flowered silk. At her elbow, Henry moved through the crowd in the front hall. He felt cool eyes on him. He stood very straight and stiff. He was pale. He bowed to the various girls and fellows--Mary, Martha, Herb, Elbow, and the rest, with reserve. It was, from moment to moment, a battle. Nobody but Madame Watt would have thought of giving such a party. It was so expensive--the dinner for twenty-two, to begin with; then all the railway fares; a bus from the station in Chicago to the theatre and back. The theatre tickets alone came to thirty-three dollars (these were the less expensive days of the dollar and a half seat). Sunbury still, at the time, was inclined to look doubtfully on ostentation. You felt, too, in the case of Madame, that she was likely to speak, at any moment rather--well, broadly. All that Paris experience, whatever it was, seemed to be hovering about the snapping black eyes and the indomitable mouth. You sensed in her none of the reserve of movement, of speech, of mind, that were implied in the feminine standards of Sunbury. Yet she was unquestionably a person. If she laughed louder than the ladies of Sunbury, she had more to say. To-night she was a dominantly entertaining hostess. She talked of the theatre, in Paris, London and New York--of the Coquelins, Gallipaux, Bernhardt, of Irving and Terry and Willard and Grossmith. Some of these she had met. She knew Sothem, it appeared. Even the extremely worldly Elbow and Herb were impressed. She had Henry at her right. Boldly placed him there. At his right was a girl from Omaha who was visiting the Smiths and who made several efforts to be pleasant to the pale gloomy youth with the little moustache and the distinctly interesting gray-blue eyes. By the time they were settled on the train Henry found himself grateful to the certainly strong, however coarse-fibred woman. Efforts to identify her as she seemed now, with the woman of that hideous scene with the Senator brought only bewilderment. He had to give it up. This woman was rapidly winning his confidence; even, in a curious sense, his sympathy. At the farther end of the table the little Senator, all dignity and calm stilted sentences, made himself remotely agreeable to several girls at once. At one side of the table sat Cicely, in lacy white with a wonderful little gauzy scarf about her shoulders. She looked at him only now and then, and just as she looked at the others. He wondered how she could smile so brightly. Herb and Elbow made a great joke of fighting over her. Elbow had her at dinner; Herb on the train; Elbow again at the theatre. Henry was fairly clinging to Madame by that time. I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled ceaselessly around and around in his brain, the one that came up oftenest and stayed longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely\x92s sake he must bear his anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, patient. He had read, somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with books, that Abraham Lincoln had once been brought to the point of suicide through a disappointment in love. And to-night he thought much and deeply of Lincoln. He had already decided, during an emotionally turbulent two days, not to shoot himself. During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat. When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard with a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he had, and glanced once or twice at Madame. The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in the lobby. Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about staying alone with the girls, followed them. And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of importance, came the Senator. He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted beard; said, \x91It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a little refreshment;\x92 and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows of bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil paintings in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special fixtures built out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an undraped female figure reclining on a couch. They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks. Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling to exhibit a _savoir faire_ that had no existence in his mercurial nature. \x91I\x92ll take ginger ale,\x92 he said, in painful self-consciousness. The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with a long-practised flourish. Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted that the Senator had not returned with the others. Madame turned and looked up the aisle. The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other. Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had been found amusing by many girls. Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a \x91full dress suit,\x92 had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely\x92s hair and profile whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish. \x91He\x92s rich,\x92 thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and unclasping his hands. \x91He\x92s rich. He can do everything for her. And he loves her. He couldn\x92t look that way if he didn\x92t.\x92 A comedian was singing and dancing on the stage. Cicely watched him, her eyes alight, her lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment. \x91How can she!\x92 he thought. \x91How _can_ she!\x92 Then: \x91I could do that. If I\x92d kept it up. If she\x92d seen me in _Iolanthe_ maybe she\x92d care.\x92 The curtain fell on a glittering finale. With a great chattering the party moved up the aisle. Cicely told her two escorts that she didn\x92t know when she had enjoyed anything so much. She was merry about it. Care free as a child. Henry stopped short in the foyer; standing aside, half behind a framed advertisement on an easel; his hands clenched in his coat pockets; white of face; biting his lip. \x91I can\x92t go with them!\x92 he was thinking. \x91It\x92s too much. I can\x92t! I can\x92t trust myself. I\x92d say something. But what\x92ll they think? \x91She won\x92t know. She won\x92t care. She\x92s happy--my suffering is nothing to her.\x92 This was youthful bitterness, of course. But it met an immediate counter in the following thought, which, to any one who knew the often selfcentred Henry would have been interesting. \x91But that\x92s the way it ought to be. She mustn\x92t know how I suffer. It isn\x92t her fault. A great love just comes to you. Nobody can help it. It\x92s tragedy, of course. Even if I have to--to\x92--his lip was quivering now--\x91to shoot myself, I must leave a note telling her she wasn\x92t to blame. Just that I loved her too much to live without her. But I haven\x92t any money. I couldn\x92t make her happy.\x92 His eyes, narrow points of fire, glanced this way and that. Almost furtively. Passion--a grown man\x92s passion--was or seemed to him to be tearing him to pieces. And he hadn\x92t a grown man\x92s experience of life, the background of discipline and self-control, that might have helped him weather the storm. All he could do was to wonder if he had spoken aloud or only thought these words. He didn\x92t know. Somebody might have heard. The crowd was still pouring slowly out past him. It seemed to him incredible that all the world shouldn\x92t know about it. The others of the party were somewhere out on the street now. They were going to a restaurant; then, in their bus, to the twelve-fourteen, the last train for Sunbury until daylight. What could he do if he didn\x92t take that train? He might hide up forward, in the smoker. But there were a hundred chances that he would be seen. No, that wouldn\x92t do. He must hurry after them. But he flatly couldn\x92t. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself. There was no telling what he might do--cry like a girl, break out into an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in the restaurant. No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn\x92t rejoin them, he couldn\x92t look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others. He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. He couldn\x92t ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. He could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised--fifty or seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for Sunbury. He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They might say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. It was a sort of way out. The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he would have to go--somewhere. A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame Watt, still couldn\x92t, for the moment, find place for her in his madly surging thoughts. She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood before him. Then came this brief conversation:-- \x91You haven\x92t seen him, Henry?\x92 \x91No, I haven\x92t.\x92 \x91Hm! Awkward--he took the pledge--he swore it--I am counting on you to help me.\x92 \x91Of course. Anything!\x92 \x91Were you out with him between the acts?\x92 \x91Why--yes.\x92 \x91Did he drink anything then?\x92 \x91Yes. He took Scotch.\x92 \x91Oh, he did?\x92 \x91Yes\x92m.\x92 \x91It\x92s all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? Be very careful. People mustn\x92t know. And I must count on you. There\x92s nobody else. We\x92ll manage it, somehow. We\x92ve got to keep him quiet and get him out home. I\x92ll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to me--have a waiter say I\x92m wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...\x92 It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She was still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the waiting groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of the street in the direction of a certain bar. 6 The Senator\x92s cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. The straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar. Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the alcove, leaned heavily on the table, and watched him. The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near despair, that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had said. Something about getting word to her--at the restaurant. But how could he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his own trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really tragic problem on his hands, flatly impossible. And there wasn\x92t a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She couldn\x92t leave her party. And she couldn\x92t bring this pitiable object in among those young people. Henry\x92s lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage wilderness. \x91Consider women, for instance!\x92 The Senator\x92s hand waved again toward the picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such distinctness. \x91Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet at the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.\x92 Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless, beating his brain for schemes that wouldn\x92t present themselves. The twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him out home if he could. \x91Women...!\x92 The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced himself; shouted, \x91Here, boy! A bit more of the same!\x92 When the glass was before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. \x91Woman, my boy, is th\x92 root--No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th\x92 root \x91n\x92 branch of all evil.\x92 Henry, with a muttered, \x91Excuse me, Senator!\x92 got out of the alcove and stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat and pressed a hand to his forehead. Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an old-fashioned closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat, asleep. The horses stood with drooping heads. Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and woke the cabman. \x91Hey!\x92 he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the street and down. \x91Hey, you! What\x92ll you take to drive to Sunbury?\x92 \x91Sunbury? Oh, that\x92s a long way. And it\x92s pretty late at night.\x92 \x91I know all that! How much\x92ll you take?\x92 The cabman pondered. \x91How many?\x92 \x91Two.\x92 \x91Fifteen dollars.\x92 \x91Oh, say I, that\x92s twice too much! Why----\x92 \x91Fifteen dollars.\x92 \x91But-----\x92 \x91Fifteen dollars.\x92 Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned was ten dollars. However... \x91All right. Drive across here.\x92 He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a small picture just above Henry\x92s empty seat. \x91We\x92re going home now, Senator. You\x92d better come with me.\x92 \x91Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha\x92s different. But not home. If you knew what I\x92ve----\x92 Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn\x92t nearly enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could spend so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably less, than three hours. The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack. \x91They are pop--popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter\x92ble mistake, young man. They\x92re stronger. Li\x92l do you dream how stronger--how great--how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more tricky--few suspect--but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....\x92 Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey to the northward he was asleep. 7 It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses on whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte coch\xE8re of the old Dexter Smith place in Sunbury. The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation. \x91Help me carry him up, please.\x92 \x91You\x92d better pay me first. Fifteen dollars! \x91I\x92ll do that afterward.\x92 \x91I\x92ll take it now.\x92 \x91I tell you I\x92m going to get it----\x92 \x91You mean you haven\x92t got it?\x92 \x91Not on me.\x92 \x91Well, look here----\x92 \x91Ssh! You\x92ll wake the whole house up! You\x92ve simply got to wait until I get home. You needn\x92t worry. I\x92m going to pay you.\x92 \x91You\x92d better. Say, he\x92d ought to have it on him.\x92 \x91We\x92re not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.\x92 Together they lifted him out. Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this outside light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the bell. He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. He took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up the steps. And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes filled. But not for himself this time. Henry\x92s gift of insight, while it was now and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going with his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a great, gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing mists of thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a red and black thread, through the fabric of many human lives. The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national importance. And now he was just--this. Here in Henry\x92s arms; inert. \x91Ring the bell, will you!\x92 said Henry shortly. The cabman moved. There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and Cicely stood there. She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale. And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she stepped quickly back out of the cabman\x92s vision) down her back below the waist. Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door. \x91Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?\x92 she asked, in a whisper. He leaned back against the wall. \x91No. Nobody. But you----\x92 \x91I\x92ve been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might----\x92 \x91Then you know?\x92 \x91Know? Why--Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?\x92 \x91Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn\x92t weigh much of anything. Just look!\x92 \x91Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.\x92 Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper hall to an open door. \x91Wait!\x92 she whispered. \x91I\x92ll have to turn on the light.\x92 He laid the limp figure on the bed. Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A voice--the cabman\x92s--cried,-- \x91Whoa there, you! Whoa!\x92 Cicely turned with a start. \x91Oh, why can\x92t he keep still!... You--you\x92d better go. I don\x92t know why you\x92re so kind. Those others would never----\x92 \x91Please!--You _do_ know!\x92 This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little gesture. \x91Oh, no, I don\x92t mean--not that I want you to----\x92 \x91Not so loud! Quick! Please go!\x92 \x91But it\x92s so terribly hard for you. I can\x92t bear--I can\x92t bear to think of your having to--people just mustn\x92t know about it, that\x92s all! We\x92ve got to do something. She mustn\x92t--You see, I love you, and.... Their eyes met. A deep dominating voice came from the doorway. \x91You had better go to your room, Cicely,\x92 it said. They turned like guilty children. Cicely flushed, then quietly went. Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which she held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was usually piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little remained was surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the ears in curl papers of the old-fashioned kind. Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He discovered then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with a low, wholly nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it certainly was, for a moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit brows before centring her attention on the unconscious figure on the bed. \x91We owe you a great deal,\x92 she said then. \x91It was awkward enough. But it might have been a disaster. You\x92ve saved us from that.\x92 \x91Oh, it was nothing,\x92 murmured Henry, blushing. \x91Are you sure no one saw? You didn\x92t take him to the station?\x92 \x91No. We drove straight out.\x92 \x91Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?\x92 \x91Me? Why, no. I was going to. But----\x92 \x91Yes?\x92 \x91She--your--Miss----\x92 \x91Do you mean Cicely?\x92 \x91Yes. She opened the door.\x92 Madame frowned again. \x91But what on earth----\x92 Henry interrupted, looking up at her now. \x91I\x92ll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody\x92s got to tell you.\x92 Madame looked mystified. \x91She couldn\x92t bear to have you know. She was afraid you----\x92 Madame raised her free hand. \x91We won\x92t go into that.\x92 \x91But we _must_. It was your temper she was----\x92 \x91We wont----\x92 \x91You _must_ listen! Can\x92t you see the dread she lives under--the fear that you\x92ll forget yourself and people will know! And can\x92t you see what it drives--him--to? I heard him talk when he was telling his real thoughts. I know.\x92 \x91Oh, you do!\x92 \x91Yes, I know. And I know this town. They\x92re very conservative. They watch new people. They\x92re watching you. Like cats. And they\x92ll gossip. I know that too. I\x92ve suffered from it. Things that aren\x92t so. But what do they care? They\x92d spoil your whole life--like that!--and go to the Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. You\x92ve got to be careful. It isn\x92t what I say, but you\x92ve _got_ to! Or they\x92ll find out, and they won\x92t stop till they\x92ve hounded you out of town, and driven him to--this--for good, and broken her--your niece\x92s--heart.\x92 He stopped, out of breath. The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round and round between his hands. What--_what_--had he been saying! Then he heard her voice, saying only this:-- \x91In a way--in a way--you have a right.... God knows it won\x92t.... So much at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.\x92 He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn\x92t speak again; not a word. She stood aside. \x91It was very good of you,\x92 she said. But he rushed past her and down the stairs. Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his temperamental young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending over him, shaking him and saying, \x91Gimme fifteen dollars! I\x92ll explain to-morrow. Gosh, but I\x92m a wreck! You\x92ve no idea!\x92 And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were piled and fumbling in various pockets for money. 8 When Henry awoke, at ten, he found himself alone in the rooms. The warm sunshine was streaming in, the university clock was booming out the hour. Then the mellow church bells set up their stately ringing. He lay for a time drowsily listening. Then the bells brought recollections. Madame Watt, and Cicely, and often the Senator attended the First Presbyterian Church. Right across the alley, facing on Filbert Avenue. By merely turning his head, Henry could see the rear gable of the chapel and the windows of the Sunday-school room. He sprang out of bed. His blue serge coat was spotted. From the table in that bar-room, doubtless. He found a bottle of ammonia and sponged. It was also in need of a pressing, but he could do nothing about that now. He had to go to church. No other course was thinkable. If only to sit where he could catch a glimpse now and then of her profile. He heard a knock downstairs, but at first ignored it. No one would be coming here of a Sunday morning. Finally he went down. There, on the step, immaculately dressed, rather weary looking with dark areas under red eyes, stood Senator Watt. \x91How do you do,\x92 said he, with dignity. \x91Won\x92t you come in?\x92 said Henry. They mounted the stairs. The Senator sat stiffly on a small chair. Henry took the piano stool. \x91I understand that you did me a very great service last night, Mr Calverly.\x92 \x91Oh, no,\x92 Henry managed to say, in a mumbling voice, throwing out his hands. \x91No, it wasn\x92t really anything at all.\x92 \x91You will please tell me what it cost.\x92 \x91Oh--why--well, fifteen dollars.\x92 The Senator counted out the money. \x91You have placed me greatly in your debt, Mr Calverly. I hope that I may some day repay you.\x92 \x91Oh, no! You see...\x92 Silence fell upon them. The Senator rose to go. \x91Drink,\x92 he remarked then, \x91is an unmitigated evil. Never surrender to it.\x92 \x91I really don\x92t drink at all, Senator.\x92 \x91Good! Don\x92t do it. Life is more complex than a young man of your age can perceive. At best it is a bitter struggle. Evil habits are a handicap. They aggravate every problem. Good day. We shall see you soon again at the house, I trust.\x92 Henry, moved, looked after him as he walked almost briskly away--an erect, precise little man. Then Henry went to church. Herb de Casselles ushered him to a seat. He could just see Cicely. He thought she looked very sad. Yet she sang brightly in the hymns. And after the benediction when Herb and Elbow and Dex Smith crowded about her in the aisle, she smiled quite as usual, and made her quick, eager Frenchy gestures. He brushed his hand across his eyes Had he been living through a dream--a tragic sort of dream? He made his way, between pews, to a side door, and hurried out. He couldn\x92t speak to a soul; not now. He walked blindly, very fast, down to Chestnut Avenue, over to Simpson Street, then up toward the stores and shops. Humphrey had a way of working at the office Sundays. He decided to go there. There was the matter of the fifteen dollars. And Humphrey would expect him for their usual Sunday dinner at Stanley\x92s. He was passing Stanley\x92s now. Next came Donovan\x92s drug store. Next beyond that, Swanson\x92s flower shop. A carriage--a Victoria--rolled softly by on rubber tyres. Silver jingled on the harness of the two black horses. Two men in plum-coloured livery sat like wooden things on the box. On the rear seat were Madame Watt and Cicely. The carriage drew up before Swanson\x92s. Madame Watt got heavily out and went into the shop. Cicely had turned. She was waving her hand. Henry found his vision suddenly blurred. Then he was standing by the carriage, and Cicely was speaking, leaning over close to him so that the men couldn\x92t hear. \x91It was dreadful the way I let you go! I didn\x92t even say good-night. And all the time I wanted you to know....\x92 He couldn\x92t speak. He stared at her, lips compressed; temples pounding. She seemed to be smiling faintly. \x91We--we might say good-night now.\x92 He heard her say that. She thought he shivered. Then he said huskily:-- \x91I--I\x92ve wanted to call you--to call you--\x92 \x91Yes?\x92 \x91--Cicely.\x92. There was a silence. She whispered, \x91I think I\x92ve wanted you to.\x92 He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly. The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers. He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes. \x91Ci--Cicely, you don\x92t, you can\x92t mean--that you--too....\x92 \x91Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!\x92 They glanced up the street; and down. \x91Come this afternoon,\x92 she breathed. \x91They\x92ll be there.\x92 \x91Come early. Two o\x92clock. We\x92ll take a walk.\x92 \x91Oh--Cicely!\x92 \x91Henry!\x92 Their hands were locked together until Madame came out. The carriage rolled away. Henry--it seemed to himself--reeled dizzily along Simpson Street to the stairway that you climbed to get to the _Gleaner_ office. And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced and cheered about him, with him, for him--Hemple\x92s meat-market, Berger\x92s grocery, Swanson\x92s, Donovan\x92s, Schultz and Schwartz\x92s barber shop, Stanley\x92s, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice--all reeled jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love! IX--WHAT\x92S MONEY! 1 |Henry paused on the sill. The door he held open bore the legend, painted in black and white on a rectangle of tin:-- THE SUNBURY WEEKLY GLEANER By Weaver and Calverly \x91How late you going to stay, Hump?\x92 he asked. Humphrey raised his eyes, listlessly thrust his pencil back of his ear, and looked rather thoughtfully at the youth in the doorway; a dapper youth, in an obviously new \x91Fedora\x92 hat, a conspicuous cord of black silk hanging from his glasses, his little bamboo cane, caught by its crook in the angle of his elbow. Humphrey\x92s gaze wandered to the window; settled on the roof of the Sunbury National Bank opposite. He suppressed a sigh. \x91I may want to talk with you, Hen. I\x92ve been figuring----\x92 The youth in the doorway shifted his position with a touch of impatience. \x91See here, Hump, you know I can\x92t make head or tail out of figures!\x92 Humphrey looked down at the desk. \x91Anyway I\x92ll see you at supper,\x92 Henry added defensively. \x91Mildred expects me down there for supper,\x92 said Humphrey. The sigh came now. He pushed up the eyeshade and slowly rubbed his eyes. \x91But I may not be able to get away. There are times, Hen, when you have to look figures in the face.\x92 The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;-- \x91A fellow has to do the sorta thing he _can_ do, Hump!\x92 \x91Well--will you be at the rooms this evening?\x92 Humphrey\x92s eyes were again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered his own question; dryly. \x91I imagine not.\x92 \x91Well--I was going over to the Watts.\x92 There was a long silence: Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door. Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his coat and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket until a corner showed. He looked too, by the fading light--it was mid-September, and the sun would be setting shortly, out over the prairie--at the tin legend on the door. The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar tin legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look. Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle of unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered with pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his chair, and looked through the window down into the street. A moment passed, then he saw Henry walking diagonally across toward Donovan\x92s drug store. For an ice-cream soda, of course; or one of those thick, \x91frosted\x92 fluids of chocolate or coffee flavour that he affected. And it was now within an hour of supper time. Humphrey leaned forward. Yes, there he stood, on the kerb before Donovan\x92s, looking, with a quick nervous jerking of the head, now up Simpson Street, now down. Yes, that was his hurry--the usual thing. Madame Watt made a point of driving down to meet the five-twenty-nine from town. Senator Watt always came out then. And usually Cicely Hamlin came along with her. Humphrey sighed, rose, stood looking down at the bills and letters and canvas books; pressed a hand again against his eyes; wandered to the press-room door and looked, pursing his lips, knitting his brows, at the row of job presses, at the big cylinder press that extended nearly across the rear end of the long room, at the row of type cases on their high stands, at imposing-stones on heavy tables. He sniffed the odour of ink, damp paper, and long, respected dust that hung over the whole establishment. He smiled, moodily, as his eye rested on the gray and black roller towel that hung above the iron sink, recalling Bob Burdette\x92s verses. He returned to the office, and stood for a few moments before the file of the _Gleaner_ on the wall desk by the door, turning the pages of recent issues. From each number a story by Henry Calverly, 3rd, seemed to leap out at his eyes and his brain. _The Caliph of Simpson Street, Sinbad the Treasurer, A Kerbstone Barmecide, The Cauliflowers of the Caliph, The Printer and the Pearls, Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen_--the very titles singing aloud of the boy\x92s extraordinary gift. \x91And it\x92s all we\x92ve got here,\x92 mused Humphrey, moving back to his own desk. \x91That mad child makes us, or we break. I\x92ve got to humour him, protect him. Can\x92t even show him these bills. Like getting all your light and heat from a candle that may get blown out any minute.\x92 And before dropping heavily into his chair, glancing at his watch, drawing his eye-shade down, and plunging again at the heavy problem of keeping a country weekly alive without sufficient advertising revenue, he added, aloud, with a wry, wrinkly smile that yet gave him a momentary whimsical attractiveness: \x91That\x92s the devil of it!\x92 There was a step on\x92 the stairs. The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly carmine nose. Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire chief, now village constable. \x91Young Calverly here?\x92 asked the official in a husky voice. Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were darting this way and that. \x91What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?\x92 Tim seemed embarrassed. \x91Why----\x92 he began, \x91why----\x92 \x91Some trouble?\x92 \x91Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse\x92s suing him.\x92 Humphrey tried to consider this. \x91What for?\x92 \x91Well--libel. One o\x92 them stories o\x92 his. I liked \x91em myself. My folks all say he\x92s a great kid. But Charlie\x92s pretty sore.\x92 \x91Suing for a lot, I suppose?\x92 \x91Why yes. Well--ten thousand.\x92 \x91Hm!\x92 \x91He lives with you, don\x92t he--back of the Parmenter place?\x92 \x91Yes.\x92 Humphrey\x92s answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to make Tim\x92s task easy. The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed Donovan\x92s on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake. Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read _Sinbad the Treasurer_ through. There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, whether you called him \x91Sinbad\x92 or Waterhouse. \x91He certainly did cut loose,\x92 mused Humphrey. \x91Charlie\x92s got a case. Got his nerve, too.\x92 Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil. 2 Henry turned away from Donovan\x92s soda fountain, wiping froth from his moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up the street, now down. A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered with silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert Avenue, two wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two dignified figures on the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, commanding, sitting erect and high, the other slighter and not commanding. Instantly, at the sight, Henry\x92s frown gave place to a nervously eager smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before Berger\x92s grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young man. The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one stepped out and entered Berger\x92s. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, leaned out to welcome the youth who rushed across the street. In Sunbury, in the nineties, a youth and a maiden could \x91go together\x92 without a thought of the future. The phrase implied frank pairing off, perhaps an occasionally shyly restrained sentimental passage, in general a monopoly of the other\x92s spare time. An \x91understanding,\x92 on the other hand, was a. distinctly transitive state, leading to engagement and marriage as soon as the youth was old enough or could earn a living or the opposition of parents could be overcome. The relationship between Cicely and Henry had lately hovered delicately between the two states. If it seemed, after each timid advance, to recede from the \x91understanding\x92 point; that was because of the burdens and the heavy responsibility that instantly claimed their thoughts at the mere suggestion of engagement and marriage: There were among the parents of Henry\x92s boyhood friends, couples that had married at twenty or even younger, and on no greater income than Henry\x92s rather doubtful twelve dollars a week. But that day had gone by. An \x91understanding\x92 meant now, at the very least, that you were saving for a diamond. You could hardly ask a nice girl to become engaged without one. And marriage meant good clothes for parties, receptions and Sundays, and the street; it meant membership in the Country Club, a reasonably priced pew in church, a rented house, at least, preferably not in South Sunbury and distinctly not out on the prairie or too near the tracks, a certain amount invested in furniture, dishes and other house fittings, and reasonable credit with the grocer and at the meat-market. You could hardly ask a nice girl to go in for less than that. You really couldn\x92t afford to let her go in for less. So they were marrying later now; six or eight or ten years later. And the girls were turning to older men. Here in Sunbury, Clemency Snow had married a man seven or eight years older whose younger brother had been among her playmates. Jane Bellman had married a shy little doctor of thirty-one or two. And Martha Caldwell, whom Henry had \x91gone with\x92 for two or three years, was permitting the rich, really old bachelor, James B. Merchant, Jr., to devote about all his time to her. He was thirty-eight if a day. It was a disturbing condition for the town boys. Thoughts of it cast black shadows on Henry\x92s undisciplined brain as he looked at the girl in the Victoria, felt, in the very air about them, her quick, bright smile, the delicately responsive liftings of her eyebrows, her marked desirability. \x91Oh, Henry,\x92 she was saying, \x91I\x92ve just been hearing the most wonderful things about you! You can\x92t imagine! At Mrs MacLouden\x92s tea. There was a man there----\x92 Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her, doubtless. \x91--a friend of Mr Merchant\x92s, from New York. And what do you think? Mr Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He\x92s been keeping them. Isn\x92t that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this man says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at your age. Henry--just _think!_\x92 But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of the man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones. He leaned over the wheel. \x91Cicely--you--you\x92re expecting me to-night?\x92 \x91Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I\x92d like to have you come.\x92 \x91But weren\x92t you _expecting_ me?\x92 \x91Why--yes, Henry. \x91Of course\x92--stiffly--\x91if you\x92d rather I wouldn\x92t come...\x92 \x91Please, Henry! You mustn\x92t. Not here on the street!\x92 He stood, flushing darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.\x92 She murmured:-- \x91You know I want you to come.\x92 This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous burdens that he couldn\x92t even pretend to assume. And then came a mad recklessness. \x91Oh, Cicely--this is awful--I just can\x92t stand it! Why can\x92t we have an understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I--I--I\x92ve just got to speak to your aunt----\x92 \x91Henry! Please! Don\x92t say those things---\x92 \x91That\x92s it! You won\x92t let me say them.\x92 \x91Not here----\x92 \x91Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I\x92m not earning much; but I\x92ll be twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I\x92ll have more\x92n three thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it wouldn\x92t do to spend all the principal,--but it would go a long way toward setting us up--you know--\x92 his voice trembled, dropped even lower, as with awe--\x91get the things we\x92d need when we were--you know--well, married.\x92 He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he was rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of despairing thoughts. The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. And the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard too. Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger\x92s; fixed her hawk eyes on him with a curious interest. He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried to smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had. Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to gain even the appearance of self-control. And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they almost maddened him. He thought of old Hump, up there in the office, fighting out their common battle. Perhaps he ought to go back; do his best to understand the accounts. Figures always depressed him. No matter. He would go back. He would show Hump that he could at least be a friend. Yes, he could at least show that. Thing to do was to keep thinking of the other fellow. Forget yourself. That was the thing! But what he did, first, was to cross over to Swanson\x92s flower shop and sternly order violets. Paid cash for them. \x91Miss Cicely Hamlin?\x92 asked the Swanson-girl. \x91Yes,\x92 growled Henry, \x91for Miss Hamlin. Send them right over, please.\x92 Then he walked around the block; muttering aloud; starting; glancing-about; muttering again. He could hardly go to Cicely\x92s. Not this evening! Not when she had been willing to leave it like that. He meant to go, of course. Too early. By seven-thirty or so. But he told himself he wouldn\x92t do it. She would have to write him. Or lose him. He would wait in dignified silence. The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury. Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief. He had wrecked everything. It wasn\x92t so much that he had proposed an understanding. In the circumstances she couldn\x92t altogether object to that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that, sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had to face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed to be that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, for both of them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible situation. And in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the worst way imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous figure of himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth hard on that thought, and compress his lips. He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the windows of the _Gleaner_ offices, over Hemple\x92s. Old Hump was hard at it. He went up there. 3 Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the desk. He didn\x92t look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand indicated that he heard. Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved aimlessly to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, and sat on a corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously against his knee. \x91Aren\x92t going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?\x92 he asked, rather huskily. Humphrey\x92s hand moved again; he didn\x92t speak. \x91Hump! What\x92s the matter? Anything happened?\x92 Still no answer. \x91But you know we\x92re picking up in advertising, Hump?\x92 \x91Not near enough.\x92 This was a non-committal growl. \x91And see the way our circulation\x92s been----\x92 \x91Losing money on it. Can\x92t carry it.\x92 \x91But--but, Hump----\x92 The senior partner waved his hand. His face was gray and grim, his voice restrained. He even smiled as he deliberately filled his pipe. \x91It\x92s bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I\x92ve tried to keep you from worrying, but you\x92ve got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this plant and the good will. \x91Cheap enough, wasn\x92t it?\x92 cried Henry. \x91If we\x92d really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes. Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last month, you know.\x92 \x91Oh\x92--breathed Henry, fright in his eyes--\x91I forgot about that.\x92 \x91And you can\x92t raise a cent.\x92 Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the window. \x91I can--November seventh,\x92 he finally remarked. Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes. \x91My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and November seventh.\x92 \x91I--I could tackle my uncle again,\x92 murmured Henry, out of a despairing face. There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him now, as he said dryly:-- \x91As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told you finally that you couldn\x92t have one cent of your principal before November seventh.\x92 \x91He--well, yes, he did say that.\x92 \x91Meant it, didn\x92t he?\x92 \x91Y--yes. He meant it.\x92 \x91He\x92s a business man, I believe.\x92 Humphrey smoked for a moment; then added, with that same biting quality in his voice, \x91And unless he\x92s insane he would hardly put money into this business now. As it stands--or doesn\x92t stand. And I presume he\x92s not insane. No, we\x92ll drop that subject.\x92 Henry felt Humphrey\x92s eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, in his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the world was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was painting ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all effort seemed to fail. Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider every minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He was afraid he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, meaningless, mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that fear. If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair--and he was in despair--was neither the sorry condition of the business, nor the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey\x92s face and eyes and caught that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn\x92t endure hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly sympathy, an easy give and take of the spirit in which his _na\xEFvet\xE9_ would not be misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, apparently, the only soil in which his faculties could take root and grow. Hostility in those he had been led to trust disarmed him, crushed him. \x91Hump,\x92 he ventured now, weakly, \x91I think--maybe--you\x92d better show me those figures. I--I\x92ll try to understand \x91em. I will.\x92 Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a long hand. \x91No use!\x92 he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it with a snap. \x91Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, Hen!\x92 He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. Suddenly he broke out with this:-- \x91You\x92re a lucky brute, Hen!\x92 Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. \x91You\x92re wondering why I said that. But, man, you\x92re a genius--Yes, you are! I have to plug for it. But you\x92ve got the flare. You know well enough what\x92s loaded all this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You\x92ll do more of \x91em. You\x92ll be famous.\x92 \x91Oh, no, Hump I You don\x92t know how I\x92ve----\x92 \x91Yes, you\x92ll be famous. I won\x92t. It\x92s a gift--fame, success. It\x92s a sort of edge God--or something--puts on a man. A cutting edge. You\x92ve simply got it. I simply haven\x92t.\x92 Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache. \x91And you\x92ve got a girl--a lovely girl. She\x92s mad about you--oh, yes she is! I know. I\x92ve seen her look at you.\x92 \x91But, Hump, you don\x92t just know what----\x92 \x91She doesn\x92t have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying smile. And you don\x92t have to hide yours. You haven\x92t got this furtive rope around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of your soul. Thank God you don\x92t know what it means--that struggle. She\x92ll be announcing her engagement one of these days. \x91There\x92ll be presents and flowers. You\x92ll get stirred up and write something a thousand times better than you know how to write. Money will come--oh, yes it will! It\x92ll roll to you, Hen. For a time. Or at times. And you\x92ll marry--a nice clean wedding. God, just to think of it is like the May winds off the lake!\x92 He threw out his long arms. Henry thought, perversely enough, that he looked like Lincoln. \x91But the greatest thing of all is that you\x92re twenty. Think of it! Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five years. They were up last month. \x91I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it--flying! Through the air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for that. Sweated for the Old Man there on the _Voice_; put up with his stupid little insults.\x92 He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch. \x91I\x92m late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred\x92ll be wondering. You can stay here if you like.\x92 But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey talked on. \x91Well, I\x92m twenty-five! And where\x92ve I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope you\x92ll never be torn as I\x92m torn now. You think you\x92ve been through things. Why, you\x92re an innocent babe. I\x92ve got a woman\x92s name--and that\x92s a woman\x92s life, Hen!--in my hands. It\x92s a muddle. Maybe there\x92s tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were going straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates me.... It\x92s costing me everything. It\x92ll take money--a lot of it--money I haven\x92t got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can\x92t turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.\x92 Henry tried to say, \x91Oh, I guess we\x92ll turn our corner all right;\x92 but if the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper. They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter\x92s. It was dark now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry. \x91You coming to the rooms, too?\x92 he asked. Henry nodded. \x91I don\x92t know\x92s I--I was forgetting, so many things--Oh well, come along. It hardly matters.\x92 At the alley entrance a man intercepted them; said, \x91This is Henry Calverly, ain\x92t it?\x92 Struck a match and read an extraordinary mumble of words. He struck other matches, and read hurriedly on. Then he moved apologetically away, leaving Henry backed limply against a board fence. Humphrey stood waiting, a tall shadow of a man. To him Henry turned, feeling curiously weak in the legs and gone at the stomach. \x91What is it?\x92 he asked, weakly, meekly. \x91I couldn\x92t understand. Did he ar--arrest me or something?\x92 \x91Charlie Waterhouse has sued you for libel. Ten thousand dollars. Come on. I can\x92t wait.\x92 \x91But--but--but that\x92s foolish. He can\x92t----\x92 \x91That\x92s how it is.\x92 Humphrey was grim. They walked in silence up the alley. Henry stood by while his partner unlocked the neat front door to the old barn, a white door, with one white step and an iron scraper. He could just make them out in the dusk. He wondered if he mightn\x92t presently wake up and find it a dream.... Old Hump! They stood in the shop. Humphrey had switched on one light; he looked now, his face deeply seamed, his eyes a little sunken, at the dim shadowy metal lathes, the huge reels of copper wire, the tool benches, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine parts, the small electric motors hanging by twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels in frames, the great box kites and the spruce and silk planes, in sections, the gas engine, the water motor, the wheels, shafts, and belting overhead. He bent his sombre eyes on Henry. That youth, aching at heart, bruised of spirit, unaware of the figure he made, was too far gone to be further puzzled by the weary, mocking smile that flitted across Humphrey\x92s face. \x91Hump!\x92 he cried out: \x91What\x92ll we do!\x92 \x91Do? Sleep over it. Raise some more money?\x92 \x91But how?\x92 Humphrey waved a hand at the machinery. \x91All this. And my library upstairs. They\x92ve stood me more\x92n four thousand, altogether. Ought to fetch something.\x92 \x91But--but--ten thousand!\x92 Henry whispered the amount with awe as well as misery. \x91Oh, _that!_ Your trouble! Why, you\x92ll sleep over that, too, and to-morrow I suppose you\x92ll talk to Harry Davis\x92s father.\x92 The senior Davis, Arthur P., was a Simpson Street lawyer. \x91They\x92ll sting you. But they don\x92t expect any ten thousand.\x92 \x91But what I said is _true!_ Charlie Waterhouse is a----\x92 \x91What\x92s that got to do with it. You can\x92t prove it. And we aren\x92t strong enough to hire counsel and detectives and run him to earth. Doesn\x92t look as if we had the barest breath of life in us. Charlie\x92ll think of your uncle next, and attach your mother\x92s estate.\x92 He said this with unusual roughness. Then he went upstairs; stamped around for a brief time; came hurrying down. Henry, now, was sitting dejectedly on a work-bench. \x91Hump--please!--you don\x92t know how I feel. I----\x92 \x91And,\x92 replied the senior partner, \x91I don\x92t care. I don\x92t care how I feel, either. We either save the paper this week or we don\x92t. That\x92s what I care about right now.\x92 \x91I--I won\x92t let you sell your things, Hump.\x92 An unconvincing assertion, from the limp figure on the bench. \x91You?\x92 Humphrey stared at him with something near contempt--stared at the moustache and the cane. \x91You? You won\x92t let me?... For God\x92s sake, _shut up!_\x92 With which he went out, slamming the door. For a time Henry continued to sit there. Then he dragged himself upstairs, went to his bookcase and got the book entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. He turned the pages until he hit upon these paragraphs:--\x91Every machine, every cathedral, every great ship was a thought before it could become a fact. Build in your brain. \x91Through the all-enveloping ether drifts the invisible electricity that is all life, all energy. Open yourself to it. Make yourself a conductor. Stupidity and fear are resistants; cast these out. Make your brain a dynamo and drive the world.\x92 This seemed a good idea. 4 Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and caution that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in the bosom of his family) chuckled over _Sinbad the Treasurer_. He had wondered a little, though he didn\x92t mention the fact to Henry, whether Charlie wouldn\x92t sue. Charlie had a case. When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr Davis\x92s impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as counsel and further had distinctly agreed to shut his head. Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn\x92t understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has followed Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such disturbance within him led directly and always to action. Whatever he may have said to Mr Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his own way. Probably Mr Davis\x92s use in the situation was to stimulate Henry\x92s already overactive brain. Hardly more. Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past seven when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse\x92s place on Douglass Street. The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light of the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar. The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few surviving in Sunbury at this time. Henry said, fiercely:-- \x91I want to talk to you about that libel suit.\x92 \x91Can\x92t talk to me, Henry. You\x92ll have to see my lawyer.\x92 \x91Yay-ah, I know. I\x92ve got a lawyer too.\x92 \x91All right. Let \x91em talk to each other.\x92 \x91You know you can\x92t get any ten thousand dollars.\x92 \x91Can\x92t talk about that.\x92 \x91Yes, you can. You gotta.\x92 \x91Oh, I\x92ve gotta, have I?\x92 \x91Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you\x92ve got a case.\x92 \x91Guess there ain\x92t much doubt about that.\x92 \x91Mebbe there ain\x92t. Even if what I said was true.\x92 \x91Look here, Henry, I don\x92t care to have this kind o\x92 talk going on around here. You better go along.\x92 \x91Go along nothing! I\x92ll say every word of it. And what\x92s more, you\x92ll listen. No, don\x92t you go. You stand right there.\x92 Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance and a huge moustache, gave a moment\x92s consideration to the blazing young crusader before him. The boy wasn\x92t going to be any too easy to handle. He had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie shifted his cigar. \x91Lemme put it this way. S\x92pose you could sting me. You\x92d never get ten thousand. But s\x92pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go ahead and push the case-----\x92 \x91Push the case? Well, rather!\x92 \x91Wait a minute! All right, let\x92s say you\x92re going ahead and fight for part o\x92 that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what\x92m I going to do?\x92 \x91Do you suppose I care what----\x92 \x91Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You----\x92 \x91_You_ want _me_ to----\x92 \x91Keep still! Now here\x92s----\x92 \x91Look here, I won\x92t have you----\x92 \x91Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I\x92ll fight. I\x92ll go straight after you. I\x92ll run you to earth. I\x92ll hire detectives to shadow you. I _know_ you ain\x92t straight, and I\x92ll show you up before the whole dam town. I\x92m right and I tell you right here I\x92m going to _prove_ it! I\x92ll put you in prison! I\x92ll----\x92 During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a loud:-- \x91Shut up!\x92 Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him to see that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a youthful chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed. \x91Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I\x92ll----\x92 \x91No, I didn\x92t come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen to reason and I\x92m going to do it.\x92 \x91Well, drop your voice a little, can\x92t you! No sense in yelling our private affairs.\x92 \x91Sure I\x92ll drop my voice. You\x92re the one that started the yelling.\x92 \x91Well, I don\x92t say you couldn\x92t make it hard for any man in my position if you want to be nasty--fight that way.\x92 \x91You wait!\x92 \x91But what I\x92d like to know is--what I\x92d like to know... Where you goin\x92 to get the money to hire all those detectives?\x92 \x91Where\x92m I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?\x92 Though Charlie came back with, \x91Oh, I\x92ll win the suit all right, all right!\x92 this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, \x91I guess Munson\x92ll manage to attach anything you\x92ve got.\x92 But he was at sea. \x91Fine dirty idea o\x92 yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.\x92 And finally, \x91Well, what do you want?\x92 \x91Listen! S\x92pose you did win. You\x92d never get ten thousand.\x92 \x91I\x92d get five.\x92 \x91No, you wouldn\x92t. Why don\x92t you act sensible and tell me what you\x92ll take to stop it.\x92 \x91I\x92d have to think that over.\x92 \x91You tell me now or I\x92ll bust this town open.\x92 \x91No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?\x92 \x91Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.\x92 \x91But it ain\x92t the money. You\x92ve assailed my character. That\x92s what you\x92ve done. Will you retract in print?\x92 \x91No, I won\x92t. But if you\x92ll come down to a decent price and promise to call off the boycott----\x92 \x91What boycott?\x92 \x91Advertising. You know. You do that, and I\x92ll agree to leave you alone. Somebody else\x92ll have to find you out, that\x92s all. I\x92ve gotta help Hump Weaver pull the _Gleaner_ out. I guess that\x92s my job now.\x92 He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young St Georges who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never compromised or gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance for the paper and for old Hump. That chance was here and now. He was sorry he couldn\x92t see Charlie Waterhouse\x92s face. \x91What\x92ll you give?\x92 asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar. \x91A thousand.\x92 \x91Lord, no. Four thousand.\x92 \x91That\x92s impossible.\x92 \x91Three, then.\x92 \x91No, I won\x92t pay anything like three.\x92 \x91I wouldn\x92t go a cent under two.\x92 \x91Well--two thousand then. All right. I\x92ll let you know by to-morrow night.\x92 \x91You understand, Henry, it ain\x92t the money. It\x92s for the good o\x92 the town I\x92m doing it. To keep peace, y\x92 understand. That\x92s why I\x92m doing it. Y\x92 understand that, Henry.\x92 He actually reached over the fence and hung to the boy\x92s arm. \x91We\x92d better shake hands on it,\x92 said Henry. \x91Sure! I\x92ll stand by it, if you will.\x92 \x91I will. Good-bye, now.\x92 And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed at the thought that you couldn\x92t rise altogether out of this hard world, that you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be soiled by it--Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, caught the eight-six to Chicago. He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item to note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry\x92s highly emotional nature that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning up, of course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day and night, night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a way, glorious. That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. The Power was on him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper seat of all belief, in his feelings, that he couldn\x92t be stopped or headed. Not to-night. 5 \x91You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.\x92 The scene was Uncle Arthur\x92s \x91den.\x92 Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought up to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper home, with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He resented them all. Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always scowling a little. His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged version of Henry\x92s extraordinary outbursts:-- \x91This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are advised that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand dollars?\x92 \x91Yes. He will.\x92 \x91And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your mother\x92s money for the purpose?\x92 \x91Well, I\x92ll be twenty-one anyway in less\x92n two months. But that ain\x92t--isn\x92t--it exactly, not all of it. I\x92ve really got to have the whole three thousand.\x92 \x91Oh, you have?\x92 \x91Yes. It\x92s like this. We bought the _Gleaner_, Hump Weaver and I. And we got it cheap, too. Two thousand--for plant, good will, the big press, everything.\x92 \x91Hmm!\x92 \x91Then I wrote those stories. They jumped our circulation way up. More\x92n we can afford. Queer about that. Because the paper\x92d been attacking Charlie Waterhouse, they got the advertiser\x92s to boycott us.\x92 \x91Oh!\x92 \x91Now Charlie\x92s promised me, if I pay him, to call off the boycott. It\x92ll give us all the Simpson Street advertising. And Hump says we\x92ll fail in a week if we don\x92t get it.\x92 \x91Henry!\x92 Uncle Arthur\x92s voice rang out with unpleasant clarity. \x91You got from me a thousand dollars of your mother\x92s estate. You sank it in this paper. I let you have that thinking it would bring you to your senses. It has not brought you to your senses. That is evident.... Now I am going to tell you something extremely serious. I tell you this because I believe that you are not, for one thing, dishonest. I have discovered that when I gave you that sum and took your receipt I was not protected. You are a minor. You cannot, in law, release me from my obligation as your guardian. After you have come of age you could collect it again from me.\x92 \x91Oh, Uncle Arthur, I wouldn\x92t do _that!_\x92 \x91I am sure you wouldn\x92t. But you can readily see, now, that it is utterly impossible for me to make any further advances to you. Even if I were willing. And I am distinctly not willing.\x92 \x91But listen, Uncle Arthur! You\x92ve got to!\x92 The scowl of this narrow-faced man deepened. \x91I don\x92t care for impudence, Henry. We will not talk further about this.\x92 \x91But we must, Uncle Arthur! Don\x92t you see, I\x92ve got to pay Charlie, and have Mr Davis get his receipt and the papers signed before they learn about you, or they\x92ll attach the estate. Why, Charlie might get all of it, and more too. They might just wreck me. I mustn\x92t lose a minute.\x92 Uncle Arthur sat straight up at this. Henry thought he looked even more deeply annoyed. But he spoke, after a long moment, quite calmly. \x91You are right there. That is a point. Putting it aside for a moment, what were you proposing to do with the other thousand dollars?\x92 Henry felt the sharp eyes focusing on him. He sprang up. His words came hotly. \x91Because Hump has put in a thousand more\x92n I have now. He said to-night he\x92d have to sell his library and his--his own things. I can\x92t let him do that. I _won\x92t_ let him. I\x92ve got to stand with him.\x92 Henry choked up a little now. \x91Hump\x92s my friend, Uncle Arthur. He\x92s steady and honest and----\x92 He faltered momentarily; Uncle Arthur was peculiarly the sort of person you couldn\x92t tell about Humphrey\x92s love affair; he wouldn\x92t be able then to see his strong points.... \x91He edits the paper and gets the pay-roll and goes out after the ads. And he _hates_ it! But he\x92s a wonderful fighter. I won\x92t desert him. I won\x92t! I can\x92t!... Uncle Arthur, why won\x92t you come out and see our place and meet Hump and let him show you our books and how our circulation\x92s jumped and...\x92 His voice trailed off because Uncle Arthur too had sprung to his feet and was pacing the room. Henry\x92s arguments, his earnestness and young energy, something, was telling on him. Finally he turned and said, in that same quiet voice:-- \x91All right, Henry. I\x92ll run out to-morrow and put this thing through for you. But----\x92 \x91Oh, no, Uncle Arthur! You mustn\x92t do that! Not to-morrow! Charlie\x92d get wise. Or some of that gang. Everybody in town\x92d know you were there. No, _that_ wouldn\x92t do!\x92 Uncle Arthur took another turn about the room. \x91Just what is it that you want, Henry?\x92 he asked, in that same quiet voice. \x91Why, let\x92s see! You\x92d better give me two thousand in one cheque and one thousand in another. Mr Davis can fix it so your cheque doesn\x92t go to Charlie. I don\x92t want to put it in the bank. Charlie\x92s crowd\x92d get on. But I\x92ll fix it. Mr Davis\x92ll know.\x92 At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on the steps. \x91It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all responsibility after your birthday. And\x92--sharply--\x91understand, you are never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have chosen your path.\x92 6 Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They choked him. With averted face he rushed by. Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then slipped off among the trees. His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely. There were lights here, too; downstairs. Some one calling, perhaps--that friend of James B. Merchant\x92s. Henry gritted his teeth. It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn irresistibly to the spot. What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that his life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must be dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his great sacrifice. The front door opened. A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very still, behind a tree, while they walked past him. A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely had at last spared him a stab. Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs. Still he lingered. Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled through his body. The front door opened. And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against the light, he saw a slim girl. His temples were pounding. His throat went dry. The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to Henry was velvet and gold--\x91In a few minutes\x92--and then seated herself midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He could see her only faintly now. Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping from tree to tree. Drew near. She lifted her head. There was a breathless pause. Then, \x91What is it?\x92 she called. \x91What is it? Who\x92s there?... O--oh! Why, _Henry!_ You frightened me... What is it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren\x92t ill, Henry?... Where on earth have you been? I\x92ve waited and waited for you. I couldn\x92t think what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? You act all tired out. Do sit down here.\x92 \x91No,\x92--the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was thinking, wildly, of dead souls\x92 standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt like that.... \x91No, I can\x92t sit down.\x92 \x91Henry! What is it?\x92 Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who has committed a speech to memory, he said this:-- \x91Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn\x92t have an \x93understanding.\x94 You know! It seemed fair to me, if--if--if you, well, cared--because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.\x92 She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but pressed on:-- \x91Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.\x92 There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave emergency, Henry had recourse to words. \x91There was trouble at the office. I couldn\x92t leave Hump to carry all the burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I\x92ve had to make a very quick turn\x92--he had heard that term used by real business men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on the train--\x91I\x92ve had to make a very quick turn--use every cent, or most every cent, of the money. Of course, without any money at all--while I might have some chance as a writer--still--well, I have no right to ask such a thing of you, and I--I withdraw it. I feel that I--I can\x92t do less than that.\x92 Then, after another silence, Henry swayed, caught at the railing, sank miserably to the steps. \x91It\x92s all right,\x92 he heard himself saying. \x91I just thought--everything\x92s been in such a mid rush--I didn\x92t have my supper. I\x92ll be all right...\x92 \x91Henry,\x92 he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures--\x91Henry, you must be starved to death. You come right in with me.\x92 He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, a dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place that must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry. \x91Stand here till I find the light,\x92 she murmured. It _was_ the pantry. She opened the ice-box, produced milk and cold meat. In a tin box was chocolate cake. \x91I oughtn\x92t to let you,\x92 he said weakly. \x91I knew you were angry to-day there----\x92 \x91But, Henry, they could _hear_ you! Thomas and William. Don\x92t you see----\x92 \x91That wasn\x92t all,\x92 he broke in excitedly. \x91It was my asking for an understanding.\x92 She was bending over a drawer, rummaging for knife and fork. \x91No, it wasn\x92t that,\x92 she said. \x91I\x92d like to know what it was, then!\x92 \x91It was--oh, please, Henry, don\x92t ever talk that way about money again.\x92 \x91But, Cicely, don\x92t you see----\x92 She straightened up now, knife in one hand, fork in the other; looked directly at him; slowly shook her head. \x91What,\x92 she asked, \x91has money to do with--with you and me?\x92 \x91But, Cicely, you don\x92t mean----\x92 He saw the sudden sparkle in her dark eyes, the slow slight smile that parted her lips. She turned away then. \x91Oh,\x92 she remarked, rather timidly, \x91you\x92ll want these,\x92 and gave him the knife and fork. He laid them on the table. They stood for a little time without speaking; she fingering the fastener of the cake box, he pulling at his moustache. Finally, very softly, she said this:-- \x91Of course, Henry, you know, we _would_ really have to be very patient, and not say anything about it to people until--well, until we _could_, you know....\x92 And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently brushing her forehead in their first kiss--until now the restraint of youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just short of any such sober admission of feeling--her cheek resting lightly against his coat, she said this:-- \x91I shouldn\x92t have let myself be disturbed. I don\x92t really care about Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of girl. Henry, you--you hurt me a little.\x92 His eyes filled. He stood erect, looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long vista of the years. He compressed his lips. \x91Of course,\x92 he said bravely. \x91We don\x92t care about money We\x92ve got all our lives. I guess I can work. Prob\x92ly I\x92ll write better for not having any. You know--it\x92ll spur me. And I\x92ll be working for you.\x92 He heard her whisper:-- \x91I\x92ll be so _proud_, Henry.\x92 \x91What\x92s money to us!\x92 He seemed at last to be getting hold of this tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a ring in his voice: \x91What\x92s money to us!\x92 After all what _is_ money to Twenty? X--LOVE LAUGHS 1 |A squat locomotive, bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring from the flaring smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the platforms and stopped just beyond the old red brick depot. The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These ladies were bound for the shops, the matin\xE9es (it was a Wednesday, and October), the lectures and concerts of Chicago. Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned back and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a train made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a sooty brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the door of the car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, chattering ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was like a tea. He was afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he couldn\x92t, from the door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but to run the gauntlet. And not without a faintly stirring sense of conspicuousness that was at once pleasing and confusing he started down the aisle, clutching at seat-backs for support. Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the women in front. These latter, on close inspection--he had paused midway--proved to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary. This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? The hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to him as ghosts come. He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden. \x91I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the _Gleaner_,\x92 she said. \x91Mr MacLouden says they\x92re worthy of Stevenson. His _New Arabian Nights_ you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In London.\x92 Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away. Mary Ames looked up. Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn\x92t bow, or smile. He wasn\x92t sure that she even inclined her head. His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that he couldn\x92t retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly by. He couldn\x92t take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately by and on into the car behind would help a little. At least in his feelings; and these were what mattered.... Who _was_ the girl under that unfamiliar hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly. He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing. Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn\x92t burn so. The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes and the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell! Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out of his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then during the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting--indeed, enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it momentarily, slightly thrilling--to discover that he liked her. He saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch of radiance in it. Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag. In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it up and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, brought up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose. Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along the aisle, the hand came down on the bag. She said, half audibly--it was a question:-- \x91Sit here?\x92 Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames\x92s shoulder; a rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn\x92t stop his whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn\x92t he gone straight by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they couldn\x92t talk confidentially. Not very well. He took the seat. What _could_ they say? But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a likeable girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even if... No, it hadn\x92t seemed like Martha. Henry was staring at Mrs Ames\x92s tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand. A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him. \x91Silly,\x92 he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, \x91wearing white gloves into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven\x92t got much sense.\x92 Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes, studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:-- \x91Henry--it hasn\x92t been very easy--but I _have_ wanted to tell you about your stories.... \x91What about\x92em?\x92 he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him. \x91Oh, they\x92re so good, Henry! I didn\x92t know--I didn\x92t realise--just everybody\x92s talking about them! _Everybody!_ You\x92ve no idea! It\x92s been splendid of you to--you know, to answer people that way.\x92 I don\x92t think Martha meant to touch on the one most difficult topic. They both reddened again. After a longer pause, she tried it again. \x91I just _love_ reading them myself. And I wish you could hear the things Jim--Mr Merchant--says....\x92 She was actually dragging him in! ... He\x92s really a judge. You\x92ve no idea, Henry!\x92 He met Kipling at a tea in New York. He knows lots of people like--you know, editors and publishers, people like that. And he crossed the ocean once with Richard Harding Davis. He says you\x92re doing a very remarkable thing... original note.... Sunbury is going to be proud of you. He wouldn\x92t let anything--you know, personal--influence his judgment. He\x92s very fair-minded.\x92 Henry dug and dug at the plush. She was pulling at her left glove. What on earth!... She had it off. \x91I want you to know, Henry. Such a wonderful thing has happened to me. See!\x92 On her third finger glittered a diamond in a circlet of gold. \x91He wanted to give me a cluster, Henry. I wouldn\x92t let him. I just didn\x92t want him to be too extravagant. I love this stone.. I picked it out myself. At Welding\x92s. And then he wished it on. And, Henry, I\x92m so happy! I can\x92t bear to think that you and I--anybody--you know....\x92 Henry was critically, moodily, appraising the diamond. \x91Can\x92t we be friends, Henry?\x92 \x91Sure we can! Of course!\x92 \x91I just can\x92t tell you how wonderful it is. I want everybody else to be happy.\x92 \x91I\x92m happy!\x92 he announced, explosively, between set teeth. She thought this over. \x91I\x92ve heard a little talk, of course. I\x92ve been interested, too. Yes, I have! Cicely\x92s a perfectly dandy girl. And she\x92s--you know, _that_ way. Knows so much about books and things. I didn\x92t realise--that you were--you know, really--well, engaged?\x92 There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick. Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:-- \x91Yes, we\x92re engaged.\x92 \x91What was that, Henry?\x92 \x91I said, \x93Yes, we\x92re engaged.\x94\x92 \x91O--o--oh, Henry, I\x92m so glad!\x92 \x91Don\x92t say anything about it, Martha.\x92 \x91Oh, of _course_ not!... You\x92ve no idea how nice people are being to me. They\x92re giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We\x92re coming back to-morrow.\x92 Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself before Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the grimy city, but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the rich and important man of her choice toward him. Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even to a brown hat. He looked strong enough--Henry knew that he played polo, and that sort of thing--but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He certainly couldn\x92t be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha could... Then he found himself taking the man\x92s hand and listening to more of the familiar praise. But on this occasion it had, he felt, a condescension, a touch of patronage, that irritated him. \x91I\x92d like to talk with you, Calverly. There\x92s a chance that--I\x92ll tell you! I may be able to arrange it this evening. They\x92re not letting me come to the party. Got to do something. I\x92ll try it. Come around to my place between eight and half-past, and I\x92ll explain more fully. There\x92s a classmate of mine in town that can help us, maybe. You\x92ll do that? Good! I\x92ll expect you.\x92 He was gone. Slowly, moodily, Henry wandered through the station and up the long stairway to the street. He felt deeply uncomfortable. It wasn\x92t this Mr Merchant, though he wished he had known how to show his resentment of the man\x92s offhand manner. But he hadn\x92t known; he wouldn\x92t again; before age and experience he was helpless. No, his trouble lay deeper. He shouldn\x92t have told Martha that he was engaged. Why had he done such a thing? What on earth had he meant by it? It was a rather dreadful break. He paused on the Wells Street bridge; hung over the dirty wooden railing; watched a tug come through the opaque, sluggish water, pouring out its inevitable black smoke, a great rolling cloud of it, that set him coughing. He perversely welcomed it. Cicely expected him in the evening. He would have to drop in on his way to Mr Merchant\x92s. Could he tell her what he had done? Dared he tell her? Martha and the Ameses would be gone overnight. That was something. And people didn\x92t get up early after parties. At least, girls didn\x92t. It would be afternoon before they would reappear in Sunbury. Say twenty-four hours. But immediately after that, certainly by evening, all Sunbury would have the news that the popular Cicely Hamlin was engaged. To young Henry Calverly. The telephone would ring. Congratulations would be pouring in. He stared fixedly at the water. He wondered what made him do these things, lose control of his tongue. It wasn\x92t his first offence; nor, surely, his last. An unnerving suggestion, that last! He asked himself how bad a man had to feel before jumping down there and ending it all. It happened often enough. You saw it in the papers. 3 Welding\x92s jewellery store occupied the best corner on the proper side of State Street. In its long series of show window\x92s, resting on velvet of appropriate colours, backed by mirrors, were bracelets, lockets, rings, necklaces, \x91dog-collars\x92 of matched pearls, diamond tiaras, watches, chests of silverware, silver bowls, cups and ornaments, articles in cut glass, statuettes of ebony, bronze and jade, and here and there, in careless little heaps, scattered handfuls of unmounted gems--rubies, emeralds, yellow, white and blue diamonds, and rich-coloured semi-precious stones. But all this without over-emphasis. There were no built-up, glittering pyramids, no placards, no price-tags even. There was instead, despite the luxury of the display, a restraint; as if it were more a concession to the traditions of sound shop-keeping than an appeal for custom. For Welding\x92s was known, had been known through a long generation, from Pittsburg to Omaha. Welding\x92s, like the Art Institute, Hooley\x92s Theatre, Devoe\x92s candy store, Field\x92s buses, Central Music Hall, was a Chicago institution, playing its inevitable part at every well-arranged wedding as in every properly equipped dining-room. You couldn\x92t give any one you really cared about a present of jewellery in other than a Welding box. Not if you were doing the thing right! Oh, you _could_, perhaps.... And Welding\x92s, from the top-booted, top-hatted doorman (such were not common in Chicago then) to the least of the immaculately clad salesmen, was profoundly, calmly, overpoweringly aware of its position. Before the section of the window that was devoted to rings stood Henry. About him pressed the throng of early-afternoon shoppers--sharp-faced women, brisk business men, pretty girls in pretty clothes, messenger boys, loiterers and the considerable element of foreign-appearing, rather shabby men and women, boys and girls that were always an item in the Chicago scene. Out in the wide street the traffic, a tangle of it (this was before the days of intelligent traffic regulation anywhere in America) rolled and rattled and thundered by--carriages, hacks, delivery wagons, two-horse and three-horse trucks, and trains of cable-cars, each with its flat wheel or two that pounded rhythmically as it rolled. And out of the traffic--out of the huge, hive-like stores and office-buildings, out of the very air as breezes blew over from other, equally busy streets, came a noise that was a blend of noises, a steady roar, the nervous hum of the city. But of all this Henry saw, heard, nothing; merely pulled at his moustache and tapped his cane against his knee. A wanly pretty girl, with short yellow hair curled kinkily against her head under a sombrero hat, loitered toward him, close to the window; paused at his side, brushing his elbow; glanced furtively up under her hat brim; smiled mechanically, showing gold teeth; moved around him and lingered on the other side; spoke in a low tone; finally, with a glance toward the fat policeman who stood, in faded blue, out in the thick of things by the car tracks, drifted on and away. Henry had neither seen nor heard her. Brows knit, lips compressed, eyes nervously intent, he marched resolutely into Welding\x92s. \x91Look at some rings!\x92 he said, to a distrait salesman. He indicated, sternly, a solitaire that looked, he thought, about like Martha\x92s. \x91How much is that?\x92 \x91That? Not a bad stone. Let me see... Oh, three hundred dollars.\x92 Henry, huskily, in a dazed hush of the spirit, repeated the words:-- \x91Three--hundred--dollars!\x92 The salesman tapped with manicured fingers on the showcase. \x91Have you--have you--have you... The salesman raised his eyebrows. \x91... any others?\x92 \x91Oh, yes, we have others.\x92 He drew out a tray from the wall behind him. \x91I can show fairly good stones as low as sixty or eighty dollars. Here\x92s one that\x92s really very good at a hundred.\x92 There was a long silence. The glistening finger nails fell to tapping again. \x91This one, you say is--one hundred?\x92 \x91One hundred.\x92 Another silence. Then:-- \x91Thank you. I--I was just sorta looking around.\x92 The salesman began replacing the trays. Henry moved away; slowly, irresolutely, at first; then, as he passed out the door, with increasing speed. At the corner of Randolph he was racing along. He caught the two-fourteen for Sunbury by chasing it the length of the platform. Henry could do the hundred yards under twelve seconds at any time with all his clothes on. He could do it under eleven on a track. By a quarter to three he was walking swiftly, with dignity, up Simpson Street. He turned in at the doorway beside Hemple\x92s meat-market and ran up the long stairway to the offices above. Humphrey strolled in from the composing room. \x91Seen those people already, Hen?\x92 \x91I--you see--well, no. I\x92m going right back in. On the three-eight.\x92 \x91Going back? But----\x92 \x91It\x92s this way, Hump. I--it\x92ll seem sorta sudden, I know--you see, I want to get an engagement ring. There\x92s one that would do all right, I think, for--well, a hundred dollars--and I was wondering....\x92 Humphrey stared at him; grinned. \x91So you\x92ve gone and done it! You don\x92t say! You are a bit rapid, Henry. The lady must have been on the train.\x92 \x91No--not quite--you see...\x92 \x91Got to be done right now, eh? All in a rush?\x92 \x91Well, Hump... \x91Wait a minute! Let me collect my scattered faculties. If you\x92ve got to this point it\x92s no good trying to reason----\x92 \x91But, Hump, I\x92ll be reasonable----\x92 \x91Yes, I know. Now listen to me! This appears to come under the general head of emergencies. We\x92re not quite in such bad shape as we were a month back. There\x92s a little advertising revenue coming in. An----\x92 \x91Yes, I thought----\x92 \x91And you\x92ve certainly sunk enough in this old property--\x92 \x91No more than you, Hump----\x92 \x91Just wait, will you! I don\x92t see but what we\x92ve got to stand back of you. Perhaps we\x92d better enter it as a loan from the business to you until I can think up a better excuse. Or no, I\x92ll tell you--call it a salary advance. Well, something! I\x92ll work it out. Never you mind now. And if you\x92re going to stop at the bank and catch the three-eight you\x92ll have to step along.\x92 It would have interested a student of psychophysics, I think, to slip a clinical thermometer in under Henry\x92s tongue as he sat, erect, staring, with nervously twitching hands and feet, on the three-eight train. 4 To Cicely\x92s house Henry hurried after bolting a supper at Stanley\x92s restaurant and managing to evade Humphrey\x92s amused questions when he heard them. It was early, barely half-past seven. The Watt household had dinner (not supper) at seven. They would hardly be through. He couldn\x92t help that. He had waited as long as he could. He rang the bell. The butler showed him in. He sat on the piano stool in the spacious, high-ceiled parlour, where he had waited so often before. To-night it looked like a strange room. He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so, more than once. Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all, what could she do? He tried to control the tingling of his nerves. \x91I must relax,\x92 he thought. With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and settled himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his pockets. But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding. He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to see if the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name embossed on the cover, \x91Weldings.\x92 He reflected, exultantly, \x91I never bought anything there before.\x92 Then: \x91She\x92s a long time. They must be at the table still.\x92 He sat up; listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back behind the \x91back parlour.\x92 The walls were thick. There were heavy hangings and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn\x92t hear. \x91Gee!\x92 his thoughts raced on, \x91think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get so much money. Wonder how it would seem.\x92 He caught himself twisting his neck nervously within his collar. And his hands were clenched; his toes, even, were drawn up tightly in his shoes. \x91Gotta relax,\x92 he told himself again. Then he felt for the little box. This time he transferred it to a trousers pocket; held it tight in his hand there. A door opened and closed. There was a distant rustling. Henry, paler, sprang to his feet. \x91I must be cool,\x92 he thought. \x91Think before I speak. Everything depends on my steadiness now.\x92 But the step was not Cicely\x92s. She was slim and light. This was a solid tread. He gripped the little box more tightly. He was meeting with a curious difficulty in breathing. Then, in the doorway, appeared the large person, the hooked nose, the determined mouth, the piercing, hawklike eyes of Madame Watt. \x91How d\x92do, Henry,\x92 she said, in her deep voice. \x91Sit down. I want to talk to you. About Cicely. I\x92m going to tell you frankly--I like you, Henry; I believe you\x92re going to amount to something one of these days--but I had no idea--now I want you to take this in the spirit I say it in--I had no idea things were going along so fast between Cicely and you. I\x92ve trusted you. I\x92ve let you two play together all you liked. And I won\x92t say I\x92d stand in the way, a few years from now---- \x91A few years!...\x92 \x91Now, Henry, I\x92m not going to have you getting all stirred up. Let\x92s admit that you\x92re fond of Cicely. You are, aren\x92t you? Yes? Well, now we\x92ll try to look at it sensibly. How old are you?\x92 \x91I\x92m twenty, but----\x92 \x91When will you be twenty-one?\x92 \x91Next month. You see----\x92 \x91Now tell me--try to think this out clearly--how on earth could you expect to take care of a girl who\x92s been brought up as Cicely has. Even if she were old enough to know her own mind, which I can\x92t believe she is.\x92 \x91Oh, but she does!\x92 \x91Fudge, Henry! She couldn\x92t. What experience has she had? Never mind that, though. Tell me, what is your income now. You\x92ll admit I have a right to ask.\x92 \x91Twelve a week, but----\x92 \x91And what prospects have you? Be practical now! How far do you expect to rise on the _Gleaner!_\x92 \x91Not very high, but our circulation----\x92 \x91What earthly difference can a little more or less circulation make when it\x92s a country weekly! No, Henry, believe me, I have a great deal of confidence in you--I mean that you\x92ll keep on growing up and forming character--but this sort of thing can not--simply can not--go on now. Why, Henry, you haven\x92t even begun your man\x92s life yet! Very likely you\x92ll write. It may be that you\x92re a genius. But that makes it all the more a problem. Can\x92t you see----\x92 \x91Yes, of course, but----\x92 \x91No, listen to me! I asked Cicely to-day why you were coming so often. I wasn\x92t at all satisfied with her answers to my questions. And when I forced her to admit that she has been as good as engaged to you----\x92 \x91But we _aren\x92t_ engaged! It\x92s only an understanding.\x92 \x91Understanding! Pah! Don\x92t excite me, Henry. I want to straighten this out just as pleasantly as I can. I _am_ fond of you, Henry. But I never dreamed---- Tell me, you and that young Weaver own the _Gleaner_, I think.\x92 \x91Yes\x92m we own it. But----\x92 \x91Just what does that mean? That you have paid money--actual money--for it?\x92 \x91Yes\x92m. It\x92s cost us about four thousand.\x92 \x91Four thousand! Hmm!\x92 \x91And then Charlie Waterhouse--he\x92s town treasurer--he sued me for libel--ten thousand dollars\x92--Henry seemed a thought proud of this--\x91and I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was something in one of my stories--the one called _Sinbad the Treasurer_. Mr Davis--he\x92s my lawyer--he said Charlie had a case, but----\x92 \x91Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It\x92s--let me see--about four thousand dollars--your share--\x92 \x91Yes\x92m four thousand. It was my mother\x92s. She left it to me. But----\x92 \x91I see. Your mother\x92s estate. How much is left of it--outside what you lost in this suit and the two thousand you\x92ve invested in the paper.\x92 \x91Nothing. But----\x92 \x91Nothing! Now, Henry\x92--no, don\x92t speak! I want you to listen to me a few minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I\x92m going to say. First, about this paper, the _Gleaner_. It\x92s a serious question whether you\x92ll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you ever _have_ to sell out you won\x92t get anything like it. If you were older, and if you were by nature a business man--which you aren\x92t!--you might manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you could get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But you\x92ll never do it. You aren\x92t fitted for it. You\x92re another sort of boy, by nature. And I\x92m sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or the most of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr Charlie Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys _could_ make the paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn\x92t be the wife of a struggling little country editor. I wouldn\x92t listen to that for a minute! No, my advice to you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you can, call it experience, and go to work as a writer. It\x92ll take you years----\x92 \x91_Years!_ But----\x92 \x91Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn\x92t a New York success. Remember that. No, it\x92s a long road you\x92re going to travel. After you\x92ve got somewhere, when you\x92ve become a man, when you\x92ve found yourself, with some real prospects--it isn\x92t that I\x92d expect you to be rich, Henry, but I\x92d _have_ to be assured that you were a going concern--why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I want you to go now----\x92 \x91Without seeing Cicely?\x92 \x91Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you won\x92t try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.\x92 \x91For--a--long... But she\x92d see other men, and--Oh!...\x92 \x91Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out whether you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we\x92ll prove it. And now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you\x92ll find the road one of these days and make a go of it.\x92 A moment more and the front door had closed on him. He stood before the house, staring up through the maple leaves at the starry sky, struggling, for the moment vainly, toward sanity. It was like the end of the world. If was unthinkable. It was awful. But after waiting a while he went to Mr Merchant\x92s. There was nothing else to do. 5 Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep change in the home life of Sunbury. \x91How are you, Calverly!\x92 he said, in his offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior tone, almost friendly indeed, he added, \x91Got a bit of a surprise for you. Come in.\x92 The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade. Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his heavy faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale cheeks, his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a handful of newspaper clippings. Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue yet had an uncanny fire in them. The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:-- \x91Oh, come in! Needn\x92t be afraid of me!\x92 And coolly read on. Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with. The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the room he thought it the type and paper of the _Gleaner_. His stories, doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! What was the good, if they made him so cross. \x91Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute--\x92 \x91I won\x92t. Don\x92t interrupt me!\x92 \x91--I would introduce him.\x92 Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry\x92s cheek. Not... It couldn\x92t be!.... \x91But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author of----\x92 \x91So I gathered. Keep still!\x92 Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the bedrooms. \x91That--that isn\x92t _the_ Mr Galbraith?\x92 asked Henry, in voice tinged with awe. \x91That\x92s who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We\x92ll have to wait till he\x92s finished now, or he\x92ll eat us alive.\x92 \x91Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he wasn\x92t even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at least a manner of businesslike calm. Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was trying--trying--to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately for some sort of a mental footing. \x91Calverly! What\x92s the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a drink.\x92 And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:-- \x91Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don\x92t feel very well. It\x92s been a--a hard day.\x92 \x91Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I\x92m afraid you\x92ve got a bit of excitement coming.\x92 Henry did this. Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight to Henry; stood over\x92 him; glared--angrily, Henry thought, with a fluttering of his wits--down at him. It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again. \x91No,\x92 he cried, \x91stay as you were. If you\x92re tired, rest! Nothing so important--nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years ago, I\x92d be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest--that\x92s the thing! And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our throats. What do you eat?\x92 \x91I--I don\x92t know\x92s I----\x92 \x91For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?\x92 \x91Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and----\x92 \x91Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don\x92t doubt you had cream on the oatmeal?\x92 \x91Well--milk, sorta.\x92 \x91Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really--think that over--orange and milk! Isn\x92t that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning of the day?\x92 Mr Merchant broke in here. \x91Galbraith, for heaven\x92s sake! Don\x92t bulldoze him.\x92 \x91But this is important. It\x92s health! We\x92ve got to look out for that. Right from the start! Here, Calverly--how old are you?\x92 \x91I\x92m--well--most--twenty-one.\x92 \x91Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o\x92clock! Good God, boy, don\x92t you see----\x92 \x91Oh, come, Galbraith!\x92 \x91Well, I\x92ll put it this way:--Here\x92s a young man that can work magic. Magic!\x92 He waved the bundle of clippings. \x91Nothing like it since Kipling and Stevenson! First thing\x92s to take care of him, isn\x92t it?\x92 Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa. \x91Then you like the stories, Galbraith?\x92 \x91Like\x92em! Of course I like \x91em. What do you think I\x92m talking about?... Like \x91em! Hmpf! Tell you what I\x92m going to do. A new thing in American publishing. But they\x92re a new kind of stories. I\x92m going to reprint \x91em, as they stand, in _Galbraith\x92s_. What do you think o\x92 that? A bit original, eh? I\x92ll advertise that they\x92ve been printed before. Play it up. Tell how I found \x91em. Put over my new author.\x92 He shook his finger again at the author in question. \x91Understand, I\x92m going to pay you just as if you\x92d submitted the script to me. That\x92s how I work. Cut out all the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I edit _Galbraith\x92s_ to suit myself. I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I print the best. I\x92m the editor of _Galbraith\x92s_ Oh, I keep a few desk men down there at the office. For the details. One of \x91em thought he was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, \x93Frank, pack up! Get out! Take a month\x92s pay. I\x92m the editor.\x94\x92 He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes. When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: \x91All tyrants have short legs.\x92 And walked off again. \x91Who\x92s Calverly?\x92 he asked, the next time around. \x91It\x92s on the paper here--\x93Weaver and Calverly\x94? Father? Uncle?\x92 \x91No,\x92 Henry managed to reply, \x91it\x92s--it\x92s me.\x92 \x91You? Good heavens! We must stop that.\x92 He tapped Henry\x92s shoulder. \x91Don\x92t be a desk man! You\x92re an artist! You don\x92t seem to understand what we\x92re getting at. Man, I\x92m going to make you! You\x92re going to be famous in a year.\x92 He stopped short; took another swing around the room. \x91How many of these stories are there, Calverly?\x92 \x91Twenty.\x92 \x91Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of \x91em to make a very neat book. By the way, I\x92m starting a book department in the spring. \x91What do you want for \x91em?\x92 Henry could only look appealingly at his host. \x91I\x92ll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth your while. You\x92re going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That\x92s two thousand.\x92 Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent. He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down. \x91Not enough,\x92 said Merchant. Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened. \x91It\x92s pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it\x92s a case of a new writer. I\x92ve got to make him. It\x92ll cost money.\x92 \x91True. But I should think----\x92 \x91Say a hundred and fifty. That\x92s three thousand. Will you take that, Calverly? \x91What for?\x92 asked Merchant. \x91What are you buying exactly?\x92 \x91Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. But I\x92ve got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. Here!\x92 He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening paper. \x91How about this? I\x92m to have exclusive control of the Henry Calverly matter for five years----\x92 \x91Too long,\x92 said Mr Merchant. \x91Well--three years. I\x92m to see every word before he offers it elsewhere. And for what I accept I\x92d pay at the same rate per word as for these stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.\x92 \x91Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No guarantee.\x92 \x91What would be right then? I\x92d do the fair thing. He\x92ll never regret tying up with me.\x92 \x91You\x92d better agree to pay him something--say twenty-five a week--as a minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to tie him up. I\x92m not sure I\x92d advise him to do even that, now.\x92 \x91I\x92m going to tie him up, all right. I\x92d go the limit. Twenty-five a week, minimum, for three years. That\x92s agreed... How\x92re you fixed, Calverly? Want any money now?\x92 Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. \x91Yes. Better advance a little. He could use it. Couldn\x92t you, Calverly?\x92 \x91Why---why----\x92 \x91What do you say to five hundred. That\x92d clinch the bargain. Here--wait!\x92 He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the cheque. \x91Here you are, Calverly. That\x92d take care of you for the present. Mustn\x92t forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You\x92d better go now. Go home. Get a good night\x92s sleep. And watch that stomach. Cereal\x92s good, at your age. But cut out the orange.... I\x92m going to bed, Merchant. Been travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I\x92ll send you the contract from New York.\x92 \x91First, though\x92--this from Mr Merchant--\x91I think you\x92d better write a letter--here, to-night--confirming the arrangement. You and I can do that. We\x92ll let Mr Calverly go.\x92 Mr Galbraith didn\x92t say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered--\x91Where\x92d I lay that fountain pen?\x92--found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings behind him. Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to. \x91Calverly,\x92 he said, \x91I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate Galbraith.\x92 Henry looked at him out of wan eyes. Then suddenly he giggled aloud. \x91I know how you feel,\x92 said the older man kindly. \x91It is pleasant to succeed.\x92 \x91I felt a little bad about--you know, what you said about making him write that letter. He might think I----\x92 \x91Don\x92t you worry about that. I\x92ll have the letter for you in the morning. I\x92m going to pin him right to it. He\x92ll never get out of this.\x92 \x91You--you don\x92t mean that he\x92d--he\x92d----\x92 \x91Oh, he might forget it.\x92 \x91Nor after he _promised!_\x92 \x91Galbraith\x92s a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.\x92 \x91He acts very strange,\x92 said Henry critically. \x91I wonder if all geniuses are that way.\x92 \x91They\x92re apt to be queer. But never forget that he\x92s a real one. No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he\x92d make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he\x92ll do it. You\x92re on the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that\x92s how most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble on it. Within a year you\x92ll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!\x92 6 The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression. Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. It had the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely elastic imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual. He hadn\x92t enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was a shock from which he didn\x92t recover for years, an utter destruction of cherished illusions. He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, _the_ Galbraith; that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks--he recalled how he had written the first ten during three mad days and nights; they had come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write them down, as if an exuberant angel were dictating to him--had sold them for thousands of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for three years. The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing that had happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. Though he knew it would. But between times he wasn\x92t a genius; he wasn\x92t anything; just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; rubbed his blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples. \x91I\x92ve got congestion,\x92 he muttered. He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves were pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other. He could see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift cutting at his face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it. A gust tore off his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He welcomed the rush and roar of it in his stormy soul. After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the Dexter Smith place. It was dark, upstairs and down. He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time the little box from Welding\x92s was gripped in his burning hand. He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every year he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great straight branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling about him; the bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed it. Caught at another. And another. He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was cool to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at the dark house. Tears came; blinded him. \x91They\x92ve shut her up,\x92 he said. \x91They\x92re going to take her away. Because she loves me. They\x92re breaking her heart--and mine. Martha\x92ll be back to-morrow. And Mary\x92n\x92 her mother. It\x92ll be out then--what--what I did. Everybody\x92ll be talking. I\x92ll have to go away too. I can\x92t live here--not after that.\x92 A new and fascinating thought came. \x91The watchman\x92ll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He\x92ll find me here. I s\x92pose he\x92ll shoot me. I don\x92t care. Let him. In the morning they\x92ll find my body. And the ring\x92ll be in my pocket. And Mr Galbraith\x92s cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant\x92ll have that letter. Maybe they\x92ll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they\x92ll be sorry then.\x92 But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night. At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into the spacious parlour. He waited, fiercely. A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the room, frowning a little. \x91What is it, Henry? Why did you come?\x92 \x91I want you to see this,\x92 he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing another paper on her. \x91And this!\x92 he cried. \x91Please read it!\x92 She, still frowning, turned the pages. \x91But what\x92s all this, Henry?\x92 \x91Can\x92t you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready for me. It\x92s _Galbraith\x92s Magazine_. They\x92re going to print my stories and pay me three thousand. That cheque\x92s for part of it. I get book royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the price of new work. That\x92s just so I won\x92t write for anybody else. And Mr Galbraith himself promised me he\x92d make me famous. He\x92s going to advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says there\x92s been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!\x92 Printed here, coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were youth--gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she said, brusquely--\x91Sit down, Henry!\x92--and herself dropped heavily into a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy. She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power. I think he was talking all the time--pouring out an incoherent, tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to brush him away. When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a little box. \x91Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all this?\x92 \x91I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I can\x92t--I _can\x92t_--leave it like this!\x92 \x91You promised----\x92 \x91That I wouldn\x92t try to see her. But I can come to you can\x92t I? That\x92s fair, isn\x92t it?\x92 Madame Watt sighed again. Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out, in a passionately suppressed voice:-- \x91There she is! Now!\x92 Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her through the doorway. She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head. \x91Will you ask her to come!\x92 Henry moaned. \x91Ask her! Let her say! Don\x92t break our hearts like this!\x92 Madame raised her hand. Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head bent forward a little, glancing from one to the other. She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, that she, too, was suffering. She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn\x92t smile. Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. He waited for her to look up. Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had beaten her. He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated. Then his own voice came out--a shy, even polite, if breathless, little voice:-- \x91I was just wondering, Cicely, if you\x92d let me give you this ring.\x92 She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring. He held it out. Then she said:-- \x91No, Henry.... I mean, hadn\x92t you better wish it on?\x92 \x91Oh, yes,\x92 said he. \x91Funny! I didn\x92t think of that.\x92 Madame Watt turned a page, rustling the paper. \x91Wait, Henry! Don\x92t let go! Have you wished?\x92 \x91Unhuh! Have you?\x92 \x91Yes. I wished the first thing.\x92 \x91Well--\x92 Henry had to stop. He found himself swallowing rather violently. \x91Well--I s\x92pose I\x92d better step down to the office. I might come back this afternoon, if--if you\x92d like me to.\x92 \x91Henry,\x92 said Madame now, \x91don\x92t be silly! Come to lunch!\x92 *** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd" *** Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.