WAYTHORN, the next morning, went down town earlier than usual. Haskett
was not likely to come till the afternoon, but the instinct of flight
drove him forth. He meant to stay away all day--he had thoughts of
dining at his club. As his door closed behind him he reflected that
before he opened it again it would have admitted another man who had as
much right to enter it as himself, and the thought filled him with a
physical repugnance.
He caught the "elevated" at the employees' hour, and found himself
crushed between two layers of pendulous humanity. At Eighth Street the
man facing him wriggled out and another took his place. Waythorn
glanced up and saw that it was Gus Varick. The men were so close
together that it was impossible to ignore the smile of recognition on
Varick's handsome overblown face. And after all--why not? They had
always been on good terms, and Varick had been divorced before
Waythorn's attentions to his wife began. The two exchanged a word on
the perennial grievance of the congested trains, and when a seat at
their side was miraculously left empty the instinct of
self-preservation made Waythorn slip into it after Varick.
The latter drew the stout man's breath of relief.
"Lord--I was beginning to feel like a pressed flower." He leaned back,
looking unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers is
knocked out again."
"Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his partner's name.