That evening after supper Homer Dean went over to see Annie. He did not
telephone to ask if he might come, for Annie was always glad to see him,
or to see Will, whether she knew they were coming or not. Homer got
there early, so early that the Cools were still at supper, and he went
into the dining room and sat by the door, refusing Mrs. Cool’s
hospitable urgings that he eat a second supper with them. He did
surrender to a piece of pumpkin pie, but it failed to raise his spirits.
He was not yet able to face with composure the fact that Will had beaten
him. Will was his friend; there was no malice in Homer. Nevertheless, he
was disappointed, and discouraged, and sick at heart.
This was not apparent to Mr. Cool, nor to Annie’s mother, nor to her
younger sister and brother. They all liked Homer, and they talked to
him, all at once, but Annie said very little. She watched him, with a
curiously wistful questioning in her eyes, but she did not at that time
put her question into words.
After supper Mr. Cool and Homer went into the sitting room and smoked
together while Mrs. Cool and the two girls cleaned up the supper dishes.
Annie’s brother had gone downtown immediately after supper, and soon
after they came in from the kitchen Annie’s sister was borne away by one
of the boys of the neighborhood. Then Annie drew a scarf across her
shoulders and suggested to Homer that they sit on the porch.
“It’s warm to-night,” she told him. “We shan’t be cold.”
So they went outside and sat down a little to one side of the front
steps, where they were shadowed and hidden by some wistaria vines from
which the leaves were just beginning to fall. And Annie asked at once:
“What is it, Homer? What is wrong?”
He did not ask her how she knew anything was wrong. In a boyish fashion
he had rather enjoyed the melancholy mien he wore, and knew she had
noticed it.
“Oh--nothing,” he said.
Annie shook her head in slow reproof, her eyes softly shining in the
shadows.
“Yes, there is too, Homer,” she insisted. “Please tell me what it is.”
“Why, I haven’t any right to growl,” he told her. “I didn’t mean you to
see. Didn’t mean anyone to see.”
“I could see,” she insisted gently.
He and Will had already explained to her the significance of the death
of Steve Randall, the salesman; it was not necessary for Homer to repeat
these things. He simply said: “Will’s got that job.”
She did not speak for a moment, then asked softly: “Mr. Randall’s--job?”
“Yes. Charlie Hopkins told us to-night his father had decided.” He
added with careful sportsmanship: “Of course Will deserves it. He’s a
better man. But I sort of hoped I’d.... Oh, you know.”
“I know, Homer,” she agreed, in a voice that was scarce more than a
whisper. And laid her hand, ever so lightly, upon the hand of Homer
Dean.
Now Annie Cool had kissed and been kissed many a time, by Will, and by
Homer, and by others, in the cheerful frolicking of youth; and she had
held hands on hay rides, or beneath the table at supper parties, or even
on more public occasions. Thus that she should touch Homer’s hand had in
itself no great significance.
But she had never touched his hand, nor he hers, before this night, save
when there were others all about them; and always before this night
there had been laughter back of the gesture. This night there was not
laughter; there were tears.
A conspicuously different matter.
Ten minutes later they drew their eyes one from another for long enough
to see that a man had come across the lawn from the street to the steps;
that he stood there, looking at them. A man. Will Matthews.
“Will!” cried Annie; and Homer came to his feet, laughing in nervous
exhilaration. “Will, old man,” he exclaimed.
Will stepped up on the porch, and they saw that he was smiling. He held
out his hand. “I’m sorry I--butted in,” he apologized. “But I’m glad I
was the first to know. You’ll never be sorry, Annie. Homer....” Homer
had gripped his hand; each held the other fast, as good friends will.
He stayed only a minute, then left them alone together; and he left no
shadow of sorrow for him to cloud their hour of happiness.
V
Will Matthews had a practical and straightforward habit of thought; he
possessed what men call a level head. He was not given to illusions; and
through that long night he faced facts squarely and without
self-deception. He had time to weigh many matters, for he did not sleep
at all. Time to fight off the first and crushing grief, time to
understand fully and beyond changing that he could never love any girl
but Annie. He meant that Annie should never know how deeply he had
cared, would always care. He could spare her this measure of
unhappiness. There was a somber sort of pleasure in planning thus to
serve her. Thus and in other fashions.... Do what he could to make her
happy as might be.... His thoughts went racing on a half-seen road.
Will was not a heroic figure. Rather a small man, with light hair and a
round and amiable countenance, there was nothing about him to arrest the
eye. He already wore glasses; his shoulders were already faintly stooped
from too close companionship with the ledgers where lay his daily toil.
His mother made him wear a strip of oily, red flannel about his throat
when he had taken cold. All in all, a man at whom you were like to
smile.
But--hear what Will did, and try then if you’re moved to smile.
He made it his business to reach the office next morning some five
minutes ahead of the hour. It was chance, a chance that favored what he
meant to do, which made Homer Dean ten minutes late. Old Jasper was
there before Will; and Will found on his desk a memorandum, commanding
him to come at once to Jasper’s office.
He read this memorandum slowly, considering once more the details of his
plan.
None of the other bookkeepers had yet arrived; he was alone. Jasper was
in his office at the end of the corridor, a few yards away. After a
moment Will went out into this corridor and turned toward Jasper’s door.
Outside this door he hesitated, and one hand fumbled at his throat, then
dropped to the pocket at his side. From within the office he heard old
Jasper’s rumbling cough; and he knocked upon the panel.
Jasper called: “Come in.”
Will obeyed. He pushed the door open, stepped slowly inside, and thrust
it shut behind him. He did not slam the door; nevertheless the impact
was sufficient to make Old Jasper grimace with distaste, and clap his
hands to his ears. Will stood still, waiting for the other to speak; and
his employer barked:
“What’s the matter with you, anyway? Come here?”
Will moved slowly across the office till he faced Jasper across the
other’s immaculate desk. He rested his finger tips on the polished
surface, standing uneasily under the older man’s glare.
Abruptly Jasper cried: “Where’s your cravat, Matthews? You’re not half
dressed, man. What’s got into you?”
Will’s hand flew to his collar.
“Why, I--I must have forgotten it,” he lamely apologized. “I’m very
sorry, sir.”
Jasper snorted; and Will’s hands fidgeted nervously about the tall,
old-fashioned ink bottle on the desk before him. The other seemed to
hesitate; he cleared his throat importantly. At last he said:
“Well, for God’s sake look out for your appearance better than that
hereafter. I sent for you to....”
Will heard him in something like despair. The slammed door, the lost
cravat, these had not been sufficient. He set his teeth hard, and one of
his nervous hands touched the high ink bottle. It tilted dangerously. He
seemed to try to catch it; but the thing escaped him, was overturned.
Across the spotless blotter spread a widening black flood; and as Jasper
pushed back his chair with awkward haste, those few drops which the
blotter had not absorbed flowed over the edge of the desk and descended
upon the rug.
The storm broke upon Will’s devoted head; and he stood with burning
cheeks under the old man’s profane and scourging tongue, till the first
force of Jasper’s anger was spent, and he cried:
“Damn it, I ought to kick you out for good and all. But you never did a
thing like this before. You--”
He fell silent, stumped away across the room as though ill at ease. “I
meant to--” he began, then stopped again. Stood a moment by the window,
looking out; swung back to where Will stood.
“Look up the Fosdick account for me,” he said, with averted eyes. “Give
me the figures on it. That’s all. Get out of here.”
Will got out. In the corridor he paused for a moment to replace his
cravat, swiftly fitting the stiff ends under the wings of his collar. He
was back on his high stool before the first of the other bookkeepers
arrived.
When Homer Dean came in, ten minutes late, Old Jasper’s office boy was
in the room, looking for him. “The boss wants to see you, Homer,” he
said. Right away.” ...