I paid off the cab, and we took a 'bus which passed by the street where
Barber lived. All the way I continued to reproach him. It was not enough
for him to play the fool on his own account, but he must get me into a
mess, too. I might lose my work through him.
I walked with him to his door. He looked extremely ill. His hand
trembled so badly that he could not fit his latchkey. I opened the door
for him.
"Come up and sit with a fellow," he ventured.
"Why?"
"I'm frightened.--"
"I believe," I said roughly, "that you've been drinking--or drugging."
I shoved him inside the house, pulled the door closed, and walked away
down the street. I was very angry and disturbed, but I felt also the
need to treat Barber with contempt so as to keep myself alive to the
fact that he was really a mere nothing, a little scum on the surface of
London, of no more importance than a piece of paper on the pavement.
For--shall I confess it?--I was even yet so much under the emotion of
the scene back there in the concert hall that I could not help regarding
him still with some mixture of respect and--yes, absurd as it may sound,
of fear.
It was nearly a year before I saw Barber again. I heard that he had lost
his place at his office. The cashier there, who told me this, said that
although the young man was generally docile and a fair worker, he had in
the last year become very irregular, and was often quarrelsome and
impudent. He added that Barber could now and then influence the
management--"when he was not himself," as the cashier put it--or they
would not have tolerated him so long.
"But this was only momentary," said the cashier. "He was more often weak
and feeble, and they took a good opportunity to get rid of him. He was
uncanny," ended the cashier significantly.
I cannot imagine how Barber existed after he lost his place. Perhaps his
mother was able to help a little. On the day I met him, by mere chance
in the street, he looked sick and miserable; his sallow face was more
blotchy than ever. Whether he saw me or not I don't know, but he was
certainly making as if to go by when I stopped him. I told him he looked
weak and unwell.
"Trust you to pass a cheery remark!" And he continued irritably:
"How can you expect a chap to look well if he has something inside him
stronger than himself forcing him to do the silliest things? It _must_
wear him out. I never know when it will take me next. I'm here in London
looking for a job today, but even if I find one, I'm sure to do some
tom-fool thing that will get me the sack."