It never occurred to Henry, when he came home in late July, to take
his wife to the big brick house which had been his uncle's. He didn't
know whether the house would go to Aunt Mirabelle or to himself, and
for the time being, it was immaterial; Aunt Mirabelle was welcome to
possession of it, undisturbed. Except for his uncle, there would have
been open warfare between them long ago; now that the arbitrator was
gone, war was inevitable, but Henry wouldn't fight on sacred ground.
He preferred to accept the hospitality of Judge Barklay. The Judge's
house was a third the size, and not the least prepossessing, and there
really wasn't room for the young Devereuxs in it, but as soon as you
stepped inside the door, you knew that you were welcome.
He was sorry for his aunt, and he went to see her immediately, but
even in this new situation, she let him know that she disapproved of
him thoroughly and permanently. She wasn't reconciled to his
marriage; she didn't care to receive Anna; she implied that regardless
of Mr. Starkweather's express wishes, Henry was a stony-hearted
ingrate for remaining so long abroad. To be sure, his presence at home
would have served no purpose whatsoever, but Mirabelle was firm in her
opinion. More than that, she succeeded in making Henry feel that by
his conduct he had hurried his uncle into an untimely grave; she
didn't say this flatly, nor yet by innuendo, but she managed to convey
it through the atmosphere.
"Of course," she said, "you've been to call on Mr. Archer, haven't
you?"
Henry flushed indignantly. "I hadn't even thought about it."
"Well, when you do, you'll hear some fine news." Her lip curled. "Your
friend Bob Standish's bought the business. Some of it, anyway. Bought
it on a shoestring's _my_ guess,--but he's bought it."
"I didn't know it, Aunt Mirabelle."
"Well, they only closed the deal a few days ago."
"Good for Bob!" He was thinking that if honest toil were demanded of
him, nothing could be more pleasant than an alliance with this same
Standish. His uncle had always offered up Standish, subtly, as an
illustration of what Henry himself ought to be. And it was a tribute
to the mutual affection of all three men that Henry had never been
irritated at Mr. Starkweather, nor resentful towards his friend. On
the contrary, he admitted that unless he were himself, he would rather
be Standish than anyone else. He wondered if his uncle could have
planned for him so delightful a penance as a year or two of happy
servitude under Bob. He must see Bob and congratulate him. Only
twenty-seven, and the head of the most important concern of its type
in several counties.
Aunt Mirabelle sniffed. "Good for _nothing_. He's most as scatter-brained
as you are."
Henry declined the combat, and after she sensed his intention, she
went on, with increasing acridity.
"The rest of the whole estate's tied up for a year in a trust, to see
what you're going to do with some piece of property he deeded to you
just before he died, but Mr. Archer wouldn't tell me much about it
'till you came home. I _suppose_ it's part of the business--some
department of it. If you can make ten thousand dollars out of it,
you're to have everything. All _I_ get's a few thousand outright, and
what John gave me in a little separate fund, and a year's income from
the whole estate. I suppose you think that's perfectly fair and right
and just. Naturally, you would."
In his present mood, Henry was immune to astonishment. "I don't
believe it's up to me to criticize Uncle John, whatever he did."
"Not under the circumstances, no. You've got some piece of property--_I_
don't know what it is; he didn't tell me; _I_'m only his sister--and
he's fixed things so it's just a gamble for you. You're going to do the
gambling; and I sit back and fold my hands and wait a year to see
whether you get everything, or I do. Even this house."
"What's that?"
She made a deprecating gesture. "Oh, yes, if you aren't a good enough
gambler, then _I_ come into everything. It puts me in such a sweet
position, doesn't it? So comfortable for me." Her smile was bitter;
she was recalling what her brother had said to her at lunch, on that
final day--that he wouldn't listen to her, because already he had
heard the worst that she had to say. Originally, as she knew, he had
intended to bequeath Henry a fourth of his property, and herself the
remainder; and she knew that by her too vigorous indictment of Henry
she had egged her brother into a state of mind which, regardless of
the cause of it, she still considered to be unfathomable. The memory
galled her, and so did the possibility of Henry's triumph. "Well," she
said, "I wish you every happiness and success, Henry. I suppose you
feel in your conscience you deserve it, don't you?"
When he left her, he was aware that the last tie had been severed.
* * * * *
His friend Bob Standish was a young man who in the past ten years had
achieved many different kinds of success by the reason that mere
acquaintances, as well as strangers, invariably underestimated him.
For one thing, his skin was so tender, his eyes so blue and innocent,
his mouth so wide and sensitive, his forehead so white and high,
that he gave the impression of almost childish simplicity and
ingenuousness. For another thing, he dressed with such meticulous
regard for the fashion, and he moved about with such indolent
amiability, that his clothes and his manners distracted attention
from what was underneath.
And so, at college, a full battalion of kindly sophomores had
volunteered to teach him poker, and couldn't understand why the
profits went not to the teacher, but to the pupil. Immature
professors, who liked to score off idlers and fat-brained sons of
plutocrats, had selected him as the perfect target, and some of them
had required several terms to realize that Standish, always baby-eyed,
beau-attired and apparently dreaming of far distant things, was never
lower in rank than the top twenty of his class. Out on the Field,
visiting ends and tackles, meeting him for the first time, had nearly
laughed in his face, and prepared to slaughter him, only to discover,
with alarm and horror which steadily increased from the first whistle
to the last, that Standish could explode his muscles with such a burst
of dynamic energy that his hundred and sixty pounds felt like two
hundred and ten. It was equally discouraging to learn, from breathless
experience, that when he was in his stride he was as unpursueable as a
coyote; and that he could diagnose the other fellow's tactics even
before the other fellow had quite decided what to do next.
In commerce, he had merely continued the same species of career; and
by virtue of being thoroughly depreciated, and even pitied, by his
customers, he had risen in six years from the grade of city insurance
solicitor to that of Mr. Starkweather's principal assistant. And now,
as casually as he had ever raked in a jack-pot from the bewildered
sophomores, he had bought the Starkweather business, and not on a
shoestring, either, as Mirabelle had suspected.
He had roomed with Henry at college; he had been his inseparable
companion, out of office hours, ever since; he knew him too well to
proffer any trite condolence. But his sympathy was firm and warm in
his fingers when he shook hands and Henry got the message.
"Thought probably you'd rather not have me at the train," said
Standish, "so I didn't come. Right or wrong?"
"Right, Bob.... Allow smoking in your sanctum?"
"Don't allow anybody _not_ to smoke. What are you doing--borrowing or
offering?"
Henry glanced at Standish's brand. "Neither one. Every man for
himself--and you've got vile taste. Well, I hear you're the big boss
around here. Please, mister, gimme a job?"
"Nothing I'd like better," said Standish. "I've got just the thing for
you. Sit over on the window-sill and be a lily. Flowers brighten up an
office so."
"You basely misjudge me. Didn't you know I'm going to work?"
Standish's eyes were round and guileless. "See any sea-serpents on
your way over? I've heard there _are_ such things."
"Fact, though, I am. And you know it, too. I'm hoping it's here."
His friend shook his head. "Not here, Henry."
"No?"
"No, and I'm sorry. I'd make you clean inkwells and say 'sir,' and
you'd get to be almost as democratic as I am.... Haven't you seen
Archer?"
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Oh, just squeamish, I suppose. You sort of hate to think of the--cash
end of it."
"That's right, too. But as long as you're in the building, you'd
better drop in there. From all the talk there is, you've picked up a
mystery."
"Mystery? In what way?"
"Not for me to say. Go find out. And say--you and Anna come and dine
with me tonight, will you? I just want to have you all to myself.
Mind?"
"Not noticeably."
"Good. Seven o'clock. Now get out of here and see Archer. Come back
afterwards, if you want to; but do that first."
As if from pressure of business, he projected Henry into the corridor;
and then, meditatively, he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish
had watched his employer very closely, during those last few days, and
in witnessing Mr. Starkweather's will, he had sensed, intuitively,
that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry.
* * * * *
Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the Fauntleroy days, greeted him
with the proper mixture of repression and cordiality. "But I'm
afraid," owned Mr. Archer, "I'm afraid you're going to be a little
disappointed."
Henry shook his head. "Then you've sized me up all wrong," he said,
much subdued. "Because no matter what I get, I'm going to be satisfied
that Uncle John wanted me to have it. Besides, I've apparently got to
hump myself, or I don't get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle gave me
some idea of it--I'd thought it was probably an interest in the
business, but Bob Standish says it isn't."
"No, it's a building. 361 Main Street. But it's rather more than a
mere building; it _is_ a business. It's leased until next Monday;
after that it's yours to operate. The deed's recorded now. It's yours
outright. Did your aunt tell you what the conditions are?"
"All or nothing!"
"Yes. Oh, he made a separate provision for Miss Starkweather; she'll
never go hungry; but the bulk of the estate depends on what you do
with the business in the next year. And strictly between ourselves,
your uncle expected you to finish with a bit to spare."
"I know this much; if it's anything _he_ doped out for me, it's an
even bet. It's to make ten thousand dollars?"
"Yes, and without any outside help except straight commercial
loans--if you can get 'em. No favours from anybody, and no free keep
from your families."
"What building is it, Mr. Archer?"
The lawyer paused to wipe his glasses. "It's one your uncle took over
on a mortgage last winter.... You see, Henry, he'd figured out what he
was going to do with you, and it would have been this same thing even
if he'd lived. He picked out what he thought would do you the most
good--get you in touch with different people--break down some of your
(excuse me for being blunt) class prejudice--teach you how many dimes
there are in a dollar. And for that reason he expressly stipulated
that you've got to keep your own books. That'll give you more of a
respect for money than anything else would, I guess."
"Keep my own books?"
"That's the way Mr. Starkweather began--only in his case, he kept
somebody else's. But I warned you to expect something out of the
ordinary."
"Oh, yes," said Henry. "I was all set for _some_ kind of a low-brow
job. What is it--a garage?"
"I'm afraid you'll think a garage is fashionable, compared with it."
Henry looked serious. "361 Main? I don't seem to--What on earth _is_
it, Mr. Archer?"
"Go down and look at it. Only don't be shocked, Henry; because it's
exactly what he'd have given you to do, anyway. And then let me know
what your plans are, will you? By the way--have you any money of your
own?"
Henry looked pained. "I'm down to a couple of hundred. Why?"
"Then you'd better not waste any time. Go on down and look it over
this morning, and let me know."
"Why--let you know _what_?"
"Whether you're going to take the dare."
Henry's lips twitched. "Nobody ever beat me by default yet, Mr.
Archer."
"Just the same, I wish you'd let me know definitely--won't you? Of
course, if you shouldn't feel inclined to go ahead on your uncle's
plan--and that _would_ disappoint me--you could simply sell out. I
hope you won't, though. I hope very much indeed that you won't.
But--go look at it. And one last thing, Henry; your uncle put the
thing in this shape so that too many people wouldn't be gossiping
about it. I mean, if you and your aunt don't tell--nobody will.
That's all--but let me know."
Obediently, Henry proceeded down Main Street to the 300 block. His
curiosity was active, but he was warning himself to be on guard, for
his uncle's sentences, although invariably fair and invariably
appropriate, were also founded on a solid base of humour and
surprise. Henry remembered what Mr. Starkweather had said about
coming home to eat crow, and what Mr. Archer had said about the
comparative aristocracy of a garage, and he prepared himself for a
thunderstroke, and got a laugh ready. That book-keeping provision was
really clever; Uncle John had palpably framed it up to keep Henry
on the job. But Henry would outwit the provision. A few lessons in
a commercial-school, a modern card-system, and he could handle the
books of any small business in no time at all, as per the magazine
advertisements. Of course, the crow and the garage were merely
symbols; but whatever the business might be, and however distasteful,
there was only a year of it, and after that (so confident was Henry)
there was a lifetime of luxury. He was rather glad that his
penance came first; it would serve to make the enjoyment of his
wealth so much more zestful. He should always feel as though he had
worked for it, instead of having it handed out to him on a platter,
regardless of his personal deserts. Yes, he would work faithfully,
and because the task would be within his capabilities, (for Mr.
Starkweather was sane and practical, and Mr. Archer had prophesied
a finish with something to spare) he would end his probation in a
blaze of glory, and Anna would be proud of him, Judge Barklay would
approve of him, and Aunt Mirabelle would have to revise her estimate
of him. Altogether, it was a fine arrangement, provided that his
business, whatever it was, wouldn't entirely prevent him from
keeping up with the procession, socially, and playing enough golf to
hold his present form.
He had passed 331 and 341 and 351 and his heart began to beat more
rapidly. This was almost as exciting as a Christmas stocking in the
Fauntleroy days. His eyes were searching among the numbers; there was
a four-story office building (335) and an automobile agency (339) ...
and next to that--.... Henry halted, and the laugh dried up in his
throat. He had been prepared for anything but the reality. The ark of
his fortunes was a shabby little motion-picture theatre.
Gasping, he looked up again at the number, and when he realized that
he had made no mistake, his knees turned to gelatine, and he stood
staring, fascinated, numbed. His eyes wandered blankly from the
crumbling ticket-booth to the unkempt lobby and back to the lurid
billing--the current attraction was a seven-reel thriller entitled
"What He Least Expected," but Henry missed the parallel. With
trembling fingers he produced a cigarette, but in his daze he blew out
two matches in succession. He crushed the cigarette in his palm, and
moved a few steps towards the lobby. Great Heaven, was it possible
that John Starkweather had condemned Henry the fashionable, Henry the
clubable, Henry the exclusive to a year of _this_? Was _this_ his
punishment for the past? Was _this_ the price of his future? This
picayune sordidness, and vulgarity and decay? Evidently, it was so
intended, and so ordered.
His power of reason was almost atrophied. He struggled to understand
his uncle's purpose; his uncle's logic. To break down his class
prejudice, and teach him the dimes in a dollar, and put him on the
level of a workingman? All that could have been accomplished by far
less drastic methods. It could have been accomplished by a tour of
duty with Bob. To be sure, Mr. Starkweather had promised him the
meanest job in the directory, but Henry had put it down as a figure of
speech. Now, he was faced with the literal interpretation of it, and
ahead of him there was a year of trial, and then all or nothing.
He succeeded in lighting a fresh cigarette, but he couldn't taste it.
Previously he had paid his forfeits with the best of good-nature, but
his previous forfeits hadn't obliged him to declass himself. They
hadn't involved his wife. He hadn't married Anna to drag her down to
this. It would stand them in a social pillory, targets for those who
had either admired them or envied them. It would make them the most
conspicuous pair in the whole community: older people would point to
them as an illustration of justice visited on blind youth, and would
chuckle to observe Henry in the process of receiving his come-uppance:
the younger set would quake with merriment and poor jokes and sly
allusions to Henry's ancient grandeur. Even Bob Standish would have to
hide his amusement; why, Bob himself had made society and success his
fetiches. And Anna--Anna who was so ambitious for him--how could _she_
endure the status of a cheap showman's wife?
And even if she had been willing to ally himself with such a
business, how could he conceivably make ten thousand dollars out of
it in a single year? Ten? It would take a genius to make five. An
inexperienced man, with luck, might make two or three. He couldn't
afford to hire a trained man to manage it for him: the place was too
small to support such a man, and still to net any appreciable
profit. Mr. Starkweather had undoubtedly foreseen this very
fact--foreseen that Henry couldn't sit back as a magnate, and pile
responsibility on a paid employe. To reach his quota, Henry would
have to get in all over, and act as his own manager, and take the
resulting publicity and the social isolation. But the business was
impossible, the quota was impossible, the entire project from first
to last was unthinkable. His uncle, whether by accident or design,
had virtually disowned him. There was no other answer.
His laugh came back to him, but there was no hilarity in it. It was
merely an expression of his helplessness; it was tragedy turned inside
out. Yet he felt no resentment towards his uncle, but rather an
overwhelming pity. He felt no resentment towards his friend Standish,
who had bought out the perfectly respectable business which Mr.
Starkweather might so easily have left to Henry. Mr. Starkweather had
schemed to bring about a certain reaction, and he had overplayed his
hand. Instead of firing Henry with a new ardour for success, he had
convinced him of the futility of endeavour. He had set a standard so
high, and chosen a medium so low, that he had defeated his own
object.
The next step--why, it was to chart his life all over again. It was to
dispose of this ridiculous property, and begin to make a living for
Anna. And there was no time to lose, either, for Henry's checking
balance was about to slide past the vanishing point.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to meet the gravely
sympathetic eyes of Mr. Theodore Mix.
* * * * *
Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with Miss Mirabelle Starkweather.
Her acquaintance with him was slight, but from a distance she had
always esteemed him, partly for his mature good-looks, and partly for
the distinguished manner which had always been a large fraction of his
stock-in-trade, and was now to be listed among his principal assets.
Her esteem, however, applied to him merely as an individual, and not
as a debtor.
"I wanted to see you about a note," she said, primly. "A five thousand
dollar demand note you gave my brother four months ago. He endorsed
it over to me, and I wanted to see you about it."
Mr. Mix allowed his mouth to widen in a smile which was disarmingly
benevolent. The horse at Bowie had proved dark indeed,--so dark that
it had still been merged with the background when the winner passed
the judge's stand--and this colour-test had cost Mr. Mix precisely two
thousand dollars. Beyond that, he had paid off a few of his most
pressing creditors, and he had spent a peculiarly carefree week in New
York (where he had also taken a trifling flyer in cotton, and made a
disastrous forced landing) so that there was practically nothing but
his smile between himself and bankruptcy. Yet Mr. Mix beamed, with
almost ecclesiastical poise, upon the holder of his demand note, and
tried her with honey.
"Ordinarily, I'm embarrassed to talk business with a woman," said Mr.
Mix. "I'm so conscious of the--what shall I say?--of a woman's
disadvantage in a business interview. But in your case, Miss
Starkweather, when your executive ability is so well known and so
universally praised--"
She nodded, and took it without discount, but she wasn't distracted
from her purpose. "I hope it's convenient for you to pay it, Mr.
Mix."
"If it weren't convenient," said Mr. Mix, soothingly, "I should _make_
it convenient. When the sister of my oldest friend--a man who once sat
at the same desk with me, when we were young clerks together--when his
sister is in need of funds, I--"
"'T isn't that," she said, quickly. "I want this money for some
special reason."
He inclined his head slightly. "One of your favourite charities, I
have no doubt. But whatever the reason, the obligation is the same.
Now, let's see--I'll have to sell some securities--when must you have
it?"
"Next Tuesday."
Inwardly, Mr. Mix was startled, but outwardly he looked grieved.
"Tuesday? Now--that _is_--wait a minute." He created the impression
that he was juggling vast affairs, in order to gratify a whim of his
old friend's sister. As a matter of fact, he was wondering what
plausible excuse he could give without revealing any hint of the
truth. "Is Tuesday imperative?"
"Tuesday by ten o'clock in the morning."
His face cleared, "You've shared a secret with me," said Mr. Mix, and
although he spoke aloud, his attitude was as though he were
whispering. "Because I happen to know that every Tuesday at ten
o'clock there's a meeting of a--a certain organization of which you're
the illustrious president. Needless to say, I refer to the Ethical
Reform League." He lowered his voice. "I ask your pardon for the
intrusion of anything of such a delicately personal nature, Miss
Starkweather, but I _must_ tell you that when a person, such as
yourself, even in the midst of inconsolable sorrow, can't forget that
great principles and great institutions can never perish, but are
immortal, and go on forever--that's true nobility of character, Miss
Starkweather, and I honour you for it."
She touched her eyes with her handkerchief. "Thank you, Mr. Mix. Yes,
I intend to make a contribution to our League--in memory of my
brother. You're--familiar with our League?"
He gestured effectively. "Familiar with it? You might as well ask me
if I'm familiar with the Emancipation Proclamation--the Magna Charta."
And this was accurate; his knowledge of all three was based on hearsay
evidence.
"And are you at all in sympathy with it?"
"My dear lady! I was one of the pioneer supporters of suffrage in this
region. I--"
"Yes, I know that, and I know your work in the Associated Charities,
and in your church, but--how did you vote on prohibition?"
He side-stepped with great agility. "How would any man of my calibre
vote?"
"True, true." She was becoming animated.
"But we've tremendous problems yet to solve.... Do you believe in
enforcing the laws, Mr. Mix? The Sunday laws especially?"
Mr. Mix picked up his cue, and gave thanks for the diversion. "Dear
lady, I am a citizen. As a citizen, I help to _make_ the laws; they're
made by all of us for our own good. Show me a man who _doesn't_
believe in enforcing the laws, and I won't argue with him--I couldn't
count on his sincerity."
"It's a pleasure to talk to a man like you," she said. "I wonder if
you agree with our other ideals. Er--what do you think about
dancing?"
He had a good phrase which he had been saving up for six weeks.
"Dancing," he said, "is popular because it's so conspicuously
innocent, and so warmly satisfactory to the guilty."
"Good! _Good!_ How about tobacco?"
This, too, he side-stepped. "It's a poison, so the doctors say. Who am
I to put any opinion against theirs?"
She was regarding him earnestly, and a little perplexedly.
"How is it, when in spirit you're one of us, you've never joined the
League?"
"I-I've never been invited," said Mr. Mix, somewhat taken aback.
"Then _I_ invite you," she said, promptly. "And I know you'll accept.
It's men like you we need--men with some backbone; prominent, useful
citizens. You sit right there. I've got an application blank in my
desk. Read it over when you get home, and sign it and mail it to me."
"I appreciate the distinction of your asking me," said Mr. Mix, with
supreme deference. "And if you have time, I wish you'd tell me what
your aims are. I am very deeply interested."
He stayed another half hour, and the conversation never swerved from
the entertaining subject of reform. Mr. Mix was insufferably bored,
and cumulatively restless, but he was convinced that he was making
headway, so that he kept his mind relentlessly on the topic, and
dispensed honey by the shovelful. When he prepared to leave, he tested
out his conviction, and reminded her gently: "Now, in regard to that
note--"
Mirabelle was blinded by her own visionings, and deafened by her own
eloquence. "Well, we'll have to take that up again--But you come to
the meeting Tuesday, anyhow. And here's one of our pamphlets for you
to look at in the meantime."
As he went down the steps, she was watching him, from the ambush of
lace window-curtains, and she was saying to herself: "Such a nice
man--so influential, too.... Now if I could get _him_ persuaded
over--"
Mr. Mix, strolling nonchalantly downtown, was also talking to himself,
and his conclusions would have astonished her. "What I've got to do,"
said Mr. Mix, thoughtfully, "is to string the old dame along until I
can raise five thousand bucks. But where's it coming from?"
Then, squarely in front of the Orpheum Theatre, he met Henry
Devereux.
* * * * *
"Good-morning, Henry," said Mr. Mix, soberly. "First time I've had a
chance to speak to you since...." He coughed discreetly. "I don't
believe I need to say that if there's anything I can do for you at any
time, all you've got to do is to say so."
Privately, Henry had always considered Mr. Mix as a genial poseur, but
he knew that Mr. Mix belonged to the Citizens Club, which was the
local standard, and that for thirty years he had been on rather
intimate business relations with Mr. Starkweather. This was sufficient
recommendation for Henry, in the swirl of his agitation, to loose his
tongue.
"All right," he said. "Tell me how soon I can sell this overgrown
magic-lantern outfit--and what I can get for it--and where I can put
the money to bring in the biggest income--and where I can get a good
job."
Now all this was intended to be purely in the nature of a rhetorical
question: for naturally, if Henry decided to sell, he would want Bob
Standish to handle the transaction for him, and to get the commission:
and also, if Henry had to find employment, he would go to his friend,
and be sure of a cordial reception. But Mr. Mix took it literally.
Mr. Mix started, and his memory began to unfold. It was on the tip of
his tongue to blurt out: "And lose your shot at the estate?" but he
restrained himself. He wasn't supposed to know the circumstances, and
as a matter of fact, as he realized with a thrill of relish, he was
probably the only outsider who _did_ know the circumstances. "Why,"
said Mr. Mix. "Do you own the Orpheum? Well, I should say offhand it's
worth a good deal. Twenty thousand. The land, you know: the building's
no good."
Henry nodded impatiently. "Yes, but who'd buy it?"
"Well, now, about _that_--of course, I'm not a real estate man--but
you could certainly _trade_ it."
"What for?"
Mr. Mix caught the note of sincerity in Henry's voice, and Mr. Mix
thought rapidly. He appeared to deliberate, to waver, to burn his
bridges. "Well--say for a third interest in Theodore Mix and
Company."
Henry stared. "Are you serious?"
Mr. Mix almost fell over backwards. "Why, yes. It's sudden, but ...
why, yes. I could use more capital, and I want a crack salesman. I'll
trade--if you're quick on the trigger. I've got two or three people
interested so far, but when it's _you_--"
Henry took him by the arm. "Come on over to the Citizens Club, then,
and we'll talk about it."