"But, judging again," went on the reader of men, "I'd say you ain't
got a wife."
"No," said I, rising restlessly. "No, no, no, I ain't. But I _will_
have, by the arrows of Cupid! That is, if--"
My voice must have trailed away and muffled itself in uncertainty and
despair.
"I see you have a story yourself," said the dusty vagrant--impudently,
it seemed to me. "Suppose you take your dime back and spin your yarn
for me. I'm interested myself in the ups and downs of unfortunate
ones who spend their evenings in the park."
Somehow, that amused me. I looked at the frowsy derelict with more
interest. I did have a story. Why not tell it to him? I had told
none of my friends. I had always been a reserved and bottled-up man.
It was psychical timidity or sensitiveness--perhaps both. And I smiled
to myself in wonder when I felt an impulse to confide in this stranger
and vagabond.
"Jack," said I.
"Mack," said he.
"Mack," said I, "I'll tell you."
"Do you want the dime back in advance?" said he.