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Updated: June 27, 2025
"Naturally, being human," Opdyke assented rather dryly. "For that matter, Whittenden, which one of us does not?" But Whittenden made no answer.
Whittenden, bending forward, laid his hand across the rug. "This," he said quietly; and, strange to say, the words brought no sting to Reed Opdyke's mind. Nevertheless, he objected to the fact. "It seems so much like gallery play, Whittenden," he urged. "It's a bit nasty to be making capital out of a thing like that."
The nearest priest was across the divide, ten miles away, and the poor beggars hadn't ten minutes to wait. They knew that, according to their religion, it meant eternal hell for them. Whittenden heard about it, and came running, book in one hand, surplice in the other. The way he made that service for the dying hum was a caution; but he got it done in time, before the first man died."
At the first glance and the second, Whittenden rejoiced at what he saw. At the third, he doubted.
What he did not slur over, what he had summoned his friend to hear, was the record of the months that had come after, a record which, for just the once, he allowed himself to paint in its true colours, dull, dun gray, and deep, deep black. "That's all, Whittenden," he said abruptly at last.
Besides, you were filling yourself up with ozone, and preparing to make a night of it. Apropos Ramsdell!" "Yes, sir?" Ramsdell appeared upon the threshold of the outer room. "Go to bed, like a Christian, when you get ready. No need for you to become a martyr, because Mr. Whittenden and I wish to carouse till all hours. When I need you, Mr.
Ramsdell's steady step came up the stairs, and Reed went on quite simply. "Then you've heard from Whittenden?" Brenton, pulling himself back to the present, looked up sharply at the question. "How did you know?" "He wrote me. What does he suggest?" "Didn't he tell you that? He wants me to go down to him, and take over some of his settlement work." "Shall you go?" Brenton shook his head.
With Ramsdell seated by his side, blanks in one hand, fountain pen in the other, Opdyke paused to consider. "Well, there's no use beating about the bush. I may as well go straight to the point. Ready, Ramsdell? All right. To H. P. Whittenden, Seven, Blank Street, New York City. Sure you've got that right? All right. Then: Getting badly bored and losing grip fast. Come pull me out. Opdyke.
And, of course, you won't speak of it to Brenton?" And Whittenden shook his head. He shook it with the more surety, because of his old-time memories of Brenton, the lank, ill-nourished youth with the crude manners and the lambent eyes. One did not tell things to a man like that; one merely listened, and then gave advice. That was really all.
And then, his telephoning finished, Whittenden fell to wondering into what sort of a man Scott Brenton, the embryo, had turned. The voice was reassuring, also the accent. Both spoke of vast improvement in their owner. Two hours later, Whittenden, balancing himself on the window sill at Opdyke's side, glanced down at the walk below him, as he heard a step draw near.
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