He himself found something to hush up when he recounted the incident
to Honey in the evening. He told of meeting Mrs. Danker's niece on the
ice-coated hill, and helping her down to the door. Of his sensations as
she clung to him he said nothing. He said nothing of the kiss in the
dark hallway. During the rest of the evening, and after he had gone to
bed, he wondered why. They all hushed these things up, and he did as
the rest; but what was the basic reason?
As his first emotional encounter the subject was sufficiently in his
mind next day to make him duller than usual at school. On his way home
from school it so preoccupied his thought that he forgot to look for
the fat boy. It was the fat boy who first saw him, hailing him as he
approached. There was already between them that acceptance of each
other which is the first stage of friendship.
"What's your name?"
"Tom Whitelaw. What's yours?"
"Guy Ansley. How old are you?"
"Sixteen. How old are you?"
"I'm sixteen, too. What's your father do?"
"I haven't got a father. I live with--" it was difficult to
explain--"with a man who kind o' takes care of me."
"A guardian?"
"Something like that. What does your father do?"
"He's a corporation lawyer. Makes big money, too." As Tom began to move
along the fat boy went with him, keeping step. "What's your guardian
do?"
"He does anything that'll give him a job. Mostly he's a stevedore."
"What's a stevedore? Sounds as if it had something to do with
bull-fighting."
"It's a longshoreman. He loads and unloads ships."
They stopped at the corner of Pinckney Street The puffy countenance
fell. Tom could follow his companion's progression of bewilderments.
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Grove Street."
It was the minute of suspense. All had been confessed. The countenance
that had fallen went absolutely blank. To himself the tall, proud,
sensitive lad was saying that his future life was staked on the
response the fat boy chose to make. If he showed signs of wriggling
out of an embarrassing situation he, Tom Whitelaw, would range himself
forever with the enemies of the rich.
The fat boy spoke at last.
"So you're that kind of fellow."
"Yes, I'm that kind of fellow."
This was mere marking time. The decision was still to come. It came
with an air on the fat boy's part of heroic resolution.
"Well, I don't care."