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
