'I'm in trouble, Humphrey.'
'Oh, come, not so bad as all--'
He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry's face. Mr
Boice, a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was
coming in from the press room.
They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a
roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs.
There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at
first. Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an
ingenuous volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he
could be bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He
was full of odd little spiritual turnings and twistings--vague as to the
clock, intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless
sea of self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him
with direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the
Thursday morning in the boy's room.
'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe
after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.'
'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make
love to her.'
'I tried to.'
'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.'
'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been
snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me
yesterday noon.'
'Oh, she hung around?'
Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch
yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.'
'Naturally. A man's little flirtations----'
'But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it
was up to me, somehow. I couldn't get rid of her.'
'Well, of course----'
'She made me promise to see her last night----'
'But--wait a minute!--last night----'
'This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent
Murphy's tandem----'
'Hm! you _were_ going it!'
'And we rode up the shore a ways.'
'Then you didn't hear all of the musicale?'
'No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann's Garden. So we went there----'
'But good lord, that's six miles---'
'Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I
felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all
the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she--but I had to be a sport,
sorta.'
'Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.'
'Sure! I _had_ to. It was awful.'
'Anybody there that knew you?'
Henry's colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of
a cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the
word, 'Yes.'
Humphrey considered the problem. 'Well,' he finally observed, 'after
all, what's the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows
pick up a girl now and then. It isn't going to kill anybody.'
'Yes, but'--Henry's emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night; he
swallowed--'but it--well, Martha was there.'
'Oh--Martha Caldwell?'
'Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant's party.'
'James B., Junior?'
'Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren't but three
tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she----'
'After all, Hen. It's disturbing and all that, but you were getting
pretty tired of Martha----'
'It isn't that, Hump 1 I don't know that I was. I get mixed. But it's
the shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway,
for something that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha,
she's--well, can't you see, Hump? It's just as if there's no use of my
trying to stay in this town any longer. They'll all be down on me now.
They'll whisper about me. They're doing it now. I feel it when I walk
up Simpson Street. They're going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and
I'm not.'
His face sank into his hands.
Humphrey considered him; said, 'Of course you're not;' considered him
further. Then he said, reflectively: 'It's unpleasant, of course, but
I'll confess I can't see that what you've told me justifies the words
“shame” and “disgrace.” They're strong words, my boy. And as for leaving
town... See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven't told me?'
The bowed head inclined a little farther.
'Hadn't you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl
got--well, a real hold on you?' The head moved slowly sidewise. 'We
fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a
pair of little muckers. No, it isn't that. I hated her all the time. I
told her I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this
morning, up on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With
towels. That's why I wrote in the library.'
'But you aren't telling me what the rest of it was.'
'She--oh, she drank beer, and----'
'That's what most everybody does at Hoffmann's. The beer's good there.'
'I don't know. I don't like the stuff.'
'Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.'
'I'll tell you. But I get so mad. It's--she--well, she wore pants.'
Humphrey's sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he
queried: 'Bloomers?'
'No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like
'em in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said
things, right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear
through--past hundreds of tables--and away over in the corner--and there
were the Ameses, and Martha, and----'
His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with
the passion of a profound moral indignation.
'Hump, she's tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point.
She smokes cigarettes. She--she leads a double life.'
And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth
before him, to smile at that last remark.
Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought
about him the last thing that night--pictured him living a lonely,
spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of
Mrs Wilcox--and the first thing the next morning.
The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a
responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the
boy on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over
all the morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked
steadily and hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and
chuckled.
Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to
clip his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a
'string.' Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule
and fill out an order on the _Voice_ Company for payment at the rate of
a dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an
inch. Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months
back, elected to work 'on space.'
That the result had not been altogether happy--he was averaging
something less than nine dollars a week now--does not concern us here.
Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured;
then proposed lunch.
At Stanley's, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and
surveyed the dejected young man before him.
'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's
voice has a velvet suavity?'
Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then
dropped his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid.
'Why not?' said he.
'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably
since she last appeared in Sunbury?'
Henry centred all his attention on the soup.
'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during
her study abroad?'
Henry's ears were scarlet now.
Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at
his deeply unhappy friend.
For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid
down his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met
Humphrey's gaze.
'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your
neck. A moment.'
Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has
absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?'
'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and
sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.'
Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes.
'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you
caught me, I think.'
It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving
speech.
'You had an unlucky day,' he said.
Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry
pushed his aside. He ate nothing more.
'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say
about her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.'
'Was she mad, Hump?'
'I--well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to
talk to her for a while. There she was, you see--came straight down
to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along.
Unusual dark brown eyes--almost black. A striking girl. But you won't
meet her--not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or
twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick.
_Verve. Timbre_. It puts you--I won't say in a Bad light--but certainly
in a rather absurd light.'
'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the
thing. I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing
at me. And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends.
I'm sort of an outcast, I suppose. A--a pariah.'
There was a long silence.
'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey.
'I can't.' Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of
strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. 'It
ain't as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I
couldn't very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It
did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being
seen with her. I'll admit I got mixed--awfully. I don't suppose I knew
just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump, you
don't know how hard I've----'
'It's the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,' observed
Humphrey. 'But never mind that now. You're caught, Hen. No good
explaining. You've just got to live it down.'
'That's what I've been doing for two years--living things down. And look
where it's brought me. I'm worse off than ever.'
There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous
suggestion to Humphrey.
'Mustn't let the kid sink this way,' he thought. Then, aloud: 'Here's a
little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You're stale. You're taking this too
hard. You need a change.'
'I don't like to leave town, exactly, Hump--as if I was licked. I've
changed about that.'
'You're not going to leave town. You're coming over to live with me.
Move this afternoon.'
Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey,
suddenly a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. 'I'll be through
by four. You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things.
Here's my key. I'll let you pay something. We'll get our breakfasts.'
He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth
touch him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. 'Come on,' he said
brusquely, 'let's get out.' And on the street he added, avoiding those
bewildered dog eyes--'I'm going to reshuffle you and deal you out
fresh.' That's all you need, a new deal.'
But to himself he added: 'It won't be easy. He is taking it hard. He's
unstrung. I'll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up
his confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It'll take time, but it can be
done. He's good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start
with.'
7
It was nearly five o'clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of
the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar.
'Hen's here now,' he thought.
He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room,
called, 'Hello there!' and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no
answer. He went on up.
On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting
of an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two
canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects--books, a small stand of
shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs.
The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where
they had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found
the splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the
cracks.'
He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It
didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know
where to put 'em.'
He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next
to his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day.
He carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the
rug.
The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the
knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of
his bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and
electric lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and
at the head of his bed.
He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with
knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling
against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard
to give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known
it would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming
again, and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant
home was his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a
dusty, cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the
water pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his
acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so.
'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he
sighed.
'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly
decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet.
He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised.
Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try
making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time.
And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of
his self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it
on. Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to
get him a key of his own.'
There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures
and garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs.
'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box
couch in for you to-night.'
'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice.
Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom;
and he compressed his lips and shook his head.
Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for
the first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey.
He cleared his throat, and said aloud:--
'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've
got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I
make excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a
pound or so of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and
figure out a meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.'
Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,'
hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally
wandered off down the stairs and out.
He returned at twenty minutes past midnight.
Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and
waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since
six o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling;
at present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly
suppressed wrath.
Henry came into the room--a little flushed, bright of eye, the sensitive
corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily upward. He
even actually chuckled.
'Well, where--on--earth....
Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess
I owe you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something.
Everything happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta
swept off your feet like that----'
'Like what!'
'Oh--well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, it
doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was
weeks ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room;
lingered on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface
wiring with sudden interest.
'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on
the self-absorbed youth.
'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese; and
just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.'
'Who!'
'Corinne Doag. You know. She's visiting there. Well, sir, I could have
died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back
into the store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs
Henderson. She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a
scolding. Shook her finger at me right, there in front of Berger's. That
fussed me worse. Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed
Corinne Doag too--she was standing right there--and she got a little
red. Wasn't it a scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You
know, threw us together. Then she--Mrs Henderson--said I didn't deserve
to meet a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn't the
kind to harbour angry feelings she'd introduce us. And--and--I walked
along home with'em.'
He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to
ceiling, across the end wall.
'Say, Hump, you don't mean to say you really read all those!'
'You walked home with them. Go on.'
'Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks
came in, and we sang and things, and then we--oh, yes, how much was the
cheese?'
'How in thunder do I know?'
'Well--there was a pound of it--Mrs Henderson made a rabbit.
The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at
last to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that
radiated from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying
the bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of
speech, only to lower his eyes again.
Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, 'She's a wonderful
girl. At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to
take a walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs
H., but I told her we'd worship in God's great outdoor temple.'
He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy
animal, his arms above his head.
'Well,' said he, 'it's late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to
sleep.' He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the
wall. 'Look here, Hump, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate
your taking me in like this. It's dam nice of you. Don't know what I'd
have done if it wasn't for you. Well, good-night.'
He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of
his earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and
leaned over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to
Humphrey that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present
happiness.
'Do you know what was the matter with me?' he broke out. 'It was just
what you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be
rational, normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now
these last two years I've been going with all my might to the other.
Of course it wouldn't work... Do you know who's helped me a whole lot?
You'd never guess.' Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a
little book bound in olive-green 'ooze' leather. 'It's this old fellow.
Epictetus. Listen to what he says--“To the rational animal only is the
irrational intolerable.” That was the trouble with me. I just wasn't a
rational animal. I _wasn't_... Well, I've got to say good-night.'
This time he went.
Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that
Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment
later that he was snoring--softly, slowly, comfortably, like a rational
animal.
The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey's bureau crept up to
twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating
boom from the big clock up at the university.
Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and
slippers went downstairs and switched off the door light he found
burning there. The stair light could be turned off upstairs.
Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on
the calm village night.
'Of all the----' he muttered inconclusively. 'Why it's--he's a---- Good
God! It's the limit! It's--it's intolerable.'
The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began,
very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his
mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. 'Epictetus,' he remarked, 'was
right.'