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We took the subway, reached the station, sat down for a space in the waiting room. But Evans was impatient; he wanted to be out in the train shed, and we went out there and walked up and down before the gate. I noticed that he was studying Sheener with some embarrassment in his eyes. Sheener was, of course, an unprepossessing figure. Lean, swarthy, somewhat flashy of dress, he looked what he was.
"If this millionaire son of his has any decency, he'll make it up to you." "He don't know a thing about me," said Sheener, "except my name. I've just wrote as though I knowed the old guy, here in the house, see. Said he was sick, and all." "And the boy gets in to-night?" "Midnight," said Sheener, and Evans, from his chair, echoed: "Midnight!"
"That's all right," he exclaimed. "That's all right. He ain't had it easy, you know. Scrubbing spittoons is enough to take the polish off any guy. I'm telling you he's there. Forty ways. You'll see, bo. You'll see." "I'm waiting," I said. "Keep right on," Sheener advised me. "Keep right on. The old stuff is there. It'll show. Take it from me." I laughed at him.
His cheeks were shaven clean, his mustache was trimmed, his thin hair was plastered down on his bony skull. The man stared straight before him, trembling and quivering. He did not look toward me when I came in; and Sheener and I sat down by the table and talked together in undertones. "The boy's really coming?" I asked. Sheener said proudly: "I'm telling you." "You heard from him?"
Has been interested in public affairs, and has held appointive offices under the State of Massachusetts and the City of Boston. Was one of the founders of the Harvard Lampoon. On editorial staff of Boston Advertiser, 1882-3. Lives in Boston, Mass. *Roman Bath. #Whitman, Stephen French.# *Amazement. *Lost Waltz. *To a Venetian Tune. *Sheener.
The man Evans went his pompous way, accepting Sheener's homage and protection as a matter of right, and in the course of half a dozen years I left the paper for other work, saw Sheener seldom, and Evans not at all. About ten o'clock one night in early summer I was wandering somewhat aimlessly through the South End to see what I might see when I encountered Sheener.
Leave it to me." Evans nodded. "Quite so," he said with some relief. "Quite so, to be sure." So we waited. Waited till the train slid in at the end of the long train shed. Sheener gripped the old man's arm. "There he comes," he said sharply. "Take a brace, now. Stand right there, where he'll spot you when he comes out. Right there, bo." "You'll step back a bit, eh, what?" Evans asked.
Then asked with a certain stiff anxiety: "Do I look all right, Sheener? Look all right to see my boy?" "Say," Sheener told him. "You look like the Prince of Wales." He went across to where the other sat and gripped him by the shoulder. "You look like the king o' the world."
Five minutes later the doctor and Sheener and I were retracing our steps toward Sheener's lodging, and presently we crowded into the small room where Evans lay on Sheener's bed. The man's muddy garments were on the floor; he himself tossed and twisted feverishly under Sheener's blankets. Sheener and the doctor bent over him, while I stood by.
Say, you wouldn't know him if you run into him in his glad rags." "How does he like your running his affairs?" I asked. "Like it?" Sheener echoed. "He don't have to like it. If he tries to pull anything on me, I'll poke the old coot in the eye." I doubt whether this was actually his method of dominating Evans.
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