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Barring calamities, he would possess a diploma in February. Honor was tremendously earnest about it; Carter, to whom learning came as easily as the air he breathed, faintly amused. She thought, sometimes, for brief, traitorous moments, that Carter wasn't always good for Jimsy. "You see," she explained to her stepfather, "Carter doesn't realize how hard Jimsy has to grind for all he gets.
"No. Just this wallop over my eye and a twisted ankle. Thought it was broken at first, but I guess it isn't." "How did it all happen?" Peggy explained. Jimsy whistled. "What make of machine is your car, Fanning?" he asked. "A Dashaway," was the rejoinder. "The same type as ours," exclaimed young Bancroft. "They are the best and stanchest cars on the market.
On the whole, it was pleasanter, more like home, more like the good days on South Figueroa Street, to have him about; she could sometimes almost cajole herself into thinking Jimsy must be there, too, in the next room, hurrying up the street, a little late for dinner, but there, near them. It was only when Carter talked to her of Jimsy that she grew anxious, even acutely unhappy.
"I'm not afraid, Carter, for myself or for Jimsy." She got up and walked to the window; she was aware that she hated the dimness of the sala; she wanted the honest heat of the sun. "Look!" she said, gladly. Carter limped slowly to join her. Jimsy King was swinging toward them through the brazen three o'clock glare, his Yaqui Juan by his side. They were a sightly and eye-filling pair.
She just stood still, looking at Jimsy until it seemed as if she were all eyes. "It comes so suddenly," Carter had told her "like the boa constrictor's hunger ... and then he was just an appetite." "Ladies'n gem'mum," said Jimsy, thickly, "goin' shing you lil' song!" Then, in his hoarse and baffled voice he sang Stanford's giddy old saga, "The Son of a Gambolier."
Honor and Jimsy observed the boy from across the street, a slim, modish person. "Gee," said Jimsy, "it must be fierce to be lame! to have your body not not do what you tell it to! I wonder what he does? He can't do anything, can he?" His eyes were deep with honest pity. "Oh, I suppose he sort of fills in with other things," Honor conceded.
All work'n no play makes Yac' a dull boy!" He roared over his own wit. The Indian, his face impassive, had risen to his feet and now Jimsy cast himself into his arms and insisted on kissing him good-night, clinging all the while to the decanter with its half inch of whisky. Carter wrenched it away from him. "You'll kill yourself," he said, in cold disgust.
I'd have been back in half an hour longer." "And he poured the whisky back into the decanter. Oh, Jimsy " "Well, I suppose it was a fool stunt, but I knew I could put it over. I did a booze-fighter in the Junior play, and I guess it comes pretty easy!" He turned away from her, his face to the wall. "I'd like to be alone, now, Skipper. You'd better look after Cart'. Watch him on the water.
They were both dining with Honor, but Jimsy looked in on his father first. "Gusty says he's slept all day," he reported to Honor. He kept looking at her, with an odd intensity, all through the lively meal. She had changed her wet white jersey for one of her long-lined, cleverly simple frocks of L. A. blue, and her honey-colored braids were like a crown above her serene forehead.
King's invitations and plans for them; she included Carter whenever it was possible. These restrictions had naturally the result of making Jimsy the more ardent in their scant privacy, and Honor, amazingly free from coquetry though she was, must have sensed it.
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