"Still, Reed, I rather grudge the time," Whittenden said to his host
when, dinner over, that same night, he flung himself into a chair at
Opdyke's side. "For all practical purposes, it was a wasted afternoon.
I'd much rather have been here with you."
"You'd have been quite _de trop_, old man. Olive Keltridge was here,
two hours, and filled me up with all the gossip of the town. Besides,
you were filling yourself up with ozone, and preparing to make a night
of it. Apropos--Ramsdell!"
"Yes, sir?" Ramsdell appeared upon the threshold of the outer room.
"Go to bed, like a Christian, when you get ready. No need for you to
become a martyr, because Mr. Whittenden and I wish to carouse till all
hours. When I need you, Mr. Whittenden will come to wake you, and you
can appear in your pajamas, if you choose. Isn't that all right,
Whittenden? Good night, Ramsdell." Then, as Ramsdell vanished, Reed
settled himself with a little sigh. "It's a fearsome responsibility,
Whittenden," he said; "to win this sort of sheep-dog devotion.
Ramsdell, on my grilly days, would like nothing better than to stand
and let me shy things at his head. It is beautiful; but it gets a
trifle sultry. A little downright cussedness helps to clear the air
occasionally; but cussèd is the one thing Ramsdell isn't. I suppose it
is because he is the product of the ages; it goes with his misplaced
aspirates."
Whittenden struck a match.
"The sheep-dog thing is worth the having, though. Best hang on to it,
Reed. It doesn't come to most of us too often."
Opdyke eyed him rather mirthfully.
"What's the matter, man?" he queried. "Did your own sheep dog growl at
you, this afternoon?"
"Mine?"
"Brenton. He counts you as the great formative influence of his life,
and adores you accordingly."
"Not now. I knew he had been through the phase, Opdyke. In fact, I had
rather counted on its lasting; but it hasn't."
"From which I infer that he showed his teeth, to-day. What was the
matter? Did you try to stroke his head, and accidentally hit him on the
raw?"
"Not consciously. It's only that I've lost all my helpful grip on him."
"How do you know?"
"Because--to carry out your sheep-dog metaphor which, in reality,
doesn't fit the case at all, Opdyke--he put his paw in mine, and then
growled at me when I shook it."
"I'm not so much surprised. Brenton has been on his nerves lately. I
can't just see why, though."
"Has he talked to you, Opdyke?"
"Good Lord, yes! A man on his nerves is bound to talk to something,
whether it's a responsible person like yourself, or a mere bedpost like
me. It's the talking that's the main thing, the sense of exhilaration
that comes with the discussion of depressing personalities. We're all
alike, every man of us, Whittenden. Didn't I take my turn, last night?"
"That's different."
"Not a bit. Spine or conscience, it's all one, once it begins to raise
a ruction. But about Brenton: how do you diagnose his disease?"
Whittenden's reply came on the instant.
"Trying to believe too many things too hard."
"Hm!" Opdyke appeared to be considering. "Well, I think perhaps you've
hit it. However, there are some extenuating circumstances. Give a man a
dozen years or so of the mental starvation of a New England wilderness,
and then all at once fill him chock full of new ideas, and he gets a
pain within him, just as painful a pain as if it were in his tummy, not
his mind. In time, it leads to chronic indigestion. That's what
Brenton's got."
"Yes; but that is cause, not extenuating circumstance," Whittenden
objected.
"It's extenuating, just the same. And then the wife! She is--"
"Well?"
"A pill," Reed said briefly.
"What sort?"
"Born common and dense. Grown self-centred and conceited. Lately turned
from ultra-ritualistic to incipient Eddyism."
"That's bad."
"Isn't it? No wonder Brenton's down and out, for the time being. The
question is how we are to prevent its becoming chronic. Of course, this
is the bare outline; you can fill in the details out of your own
experience."
"Praise heaven, I haven't any!" Whittenden responded piously.
"So much the better for you, and so very much the worse for Brenton. I
had counted on your being here to haul him out of his present mental
Turkish bath, and hang him out on the line in the fresh air and sun. I
can't." Reed made an expressive grimace at the couch. "Besides, I'm a
little bit like old Knut on the seashore; my own toes are getting very
wet. The worst of that matter is that Brenton knows it."
Whittenden spoke tranquilly, his eyes on Opdyke's face, sure that he
could rely upon the sense of humour in his friend.
"Yes, Brenton does know it. Do you realize, Opdyke, that you're the
fellow who heated up his Turkish bath, in the first place?"
"What!" The word exploded with a violence that brought Ramsdell's head
in at the open doorway.
"Yes, you."