THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE
Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, alarge white statue, labelled 'Our City', the figure of a woman inGrecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to itfor various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism wasfaulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror inevening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl ofgoldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. Itchanges.
Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when shereceived Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he hadfound her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it hadchanged Mary Hill quite remarkably.
Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations fromDunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, youngmen born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on thepaternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daringspirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only ofthe younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to maketheir fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies ofthe village sages, had prospered.
Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All shedemanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her aliving wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting andshorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and theromance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows,and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at thatmoment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there weregoing to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly onEddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a churchfestival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhapshe was still willing to do that--she had not inquired--but, at anyrate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He hadbeen very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, andsaid he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a manat lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went byand she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled,and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed heroutlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merelyfrightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazedhelplessness.
But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized thecompleteness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddypolitely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefernot to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as somethingHeaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed athousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe.
It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him.
She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, andshyness, who had spent most of his spare time twisting his fingers andstaring adoringly at her from afar. The opinion of those in the socialwhirl of Dunsterville had been that it was his hopeless passion for herthat had made him fly to New York. It would be embarrassing meeting himagain. It would require tact to discourage his silent worshippingwithout wounding him more deeply. She hated hurting people.
But, even at the cost of that, she must accept the post. To refusemeant ignominious retreat to Dunsterville, and from that her priderevolted. She must revisit Dunsterville in triumph or not at all.
Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district,situated about half-way up a building that, to Mary, reared amidst theless impressive architecture of her home-town, seemed to reach nearlyto the sky. A proud-looking office-boy, apparently baffled andmortified by the information that she had an appointment, took hername, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assortment ofemotions, to wait.
For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easyin her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostling, hurrying crowds; agiant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro; clucking,ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoopdown and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. Butnow she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much forher, but she could cope with Joe.
The haughty boy returned. Mr Rendal was disengaged. She rose and wentinto an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk.
It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe sheremembered, he of the twisted ringers and silent stare. In his case,New York had conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed,improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the handsand feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background.Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation thatMary found herself bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe! It was anoutrage.
His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign ofembarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed noembarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful.He was even flippant.
'Welcome to our beautiful little city,' he said.
Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore thepast in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him topulp?
'Won't you sit down?' he went on. 'It's splendid, seeing you again,Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York?Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens,there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy,left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words andhairpins. She said she would never return, and between ourselves, thatwas the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do?Will you take this letter down?'
Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary tookthe pencil and pad which he offered--and she took them meekly. Untilthis moment she had always been astonished by the reports whichfiltered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Ofcourse, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takessomething more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely,and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure ofhimself.
'Read it please,' he said, when he had finished dictating. 'Yes, that'sall right. You'll do.'
For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire grippedher to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt ofthe serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and herheart failed her.
'Thank you,' she said, in a small voice.
As she spoke the door opened.
'Well, well, well!' said Joe. 'Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Maryhas just been showing me what she can do.'
If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant,Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and--according to localstandards--presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catchyour breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech,he had been Dunsterville's prize exhibit. And here he was with all hisexcellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. Hehad filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when hespoke, had just that same musical quality.
'So you and Joe have fixed it up? Capital! Shall we all go and lunchsomewhere?'
'Got an appointment,' said Joe. 'I'm late already. Be here at twosharp, Mary.' He took up his hat and went out.
The effect of Eddy's suavity had been to make Mary forget the positionin which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite anold-time atmosphere of good fellowship. She hated Joe for shatteringthis and reminding her that she was his employee. Her quick flush wasnot lost on Eddy.
'Dear old Joe is a little abrupt sometimes,' he said. 'But--'
'He's a pig!' said Mary, defiantly.
'But you mustn't mind it. New York makes men like that.'
'It hasn't made you--not to me, at any rate. Oh, Eddy,' she cried,impulsively, 'I'm frightened. I wish I had never come here. You're theonly thing in this whole city that isn't hateful.'
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'Poor little girl!' he said. 'Never mind. Let me take you and give yousome lunch. Come along.'
Eddy was soothing. There was no doubt of that. He stayed her withminced chicken and comforted her with soft shelled crab. His voice wasa lullaby, lulling her Joe-harassed nerves to rest.
They discussed the dear old days. A carper might have said that Eddywas the least bit vague on the subject of the dear old days. A carpermight have pointed out that the discussion of the dear old days, whenyou came to analyse it, was practically a monologue on Mary's part,punctuated with musical 'Yes, yes's' from her companion. But who careswhat carpers think? Mary herself had no fault to find. In the roar ofNew York Dunsterville had suddenly become very dear to her, and shefound in Eddy a sympathetic soul to whom she could open her heart.
'Do you remember the old school, Eddy, and how you and I used to walkthere together, you carrying my dinner-basket and helping me overthe fences?'
'Yes, yes.'
'And we'd gather hickory-nuts and persimmons?'
'Persimmons, yes,' murmured Eddy.
'Do you remember the prizes the teacher gave the one who got best marksin the spelling class? And the treats at Christmas, when we all gottwelve sticks of striped peppermint candy? And drawing the water out ofthe well in that old wooden bucket in the winter, and pouring it out inthe playground and skating on it when it froze? And wasn't it cold inthe winter, too! Do you remember the stove in the school-room? How weused to crowd round it!'
'The stove, yes,' said Eddy, dreamily. 'Ah, yes, the stove. Yes, yes.Those were the dear old days!' Mary leaned her elbows on the table andher chin on her hands, and looked across at him with sparkling eyes.
'Oh, Eddy,' she said, 'you don't know how nice it is to meet someonewho remembers all about those old times! I felt a hundred million milesfrom Dunsterville before I saw you, and I was homesick. But now it'sall different.'
'Poor little Mary!'
'Do you remember--?'
He glanced at his watch with some haste.
'It's two o'clock,' he said. 'I think we should be going.'
Mary's face fell.
'Back to that pig, Joe! I hate him. And I'll show him that I do!'
Eddy looked almost alarmed.
'I--I shouldn't do that,' he said. 'I don't think I should do that.It's only his manner at first. You'll get to like him better. He's anawfully good fellow really, Joe. And if you--er--quarrelled with himyou might find it hard--what I mean is, it's not so easy to pick upjobs in New York, I shouldn't like to think of you, Mary,' he added,tenderly, 'hunting for a job--tired--perhaps hungry--'
Mary's eyes filled with tears.
'How good you are, Eddy!' she said. 'And I'm horrid, grumbling when Iought to be thanking you for getting me the place. I'll be nice tohim--if I can--as nice as I can.'
'That's right. Do try. And we shall be seeing quite a lot of eachother. We must often lunch together.'
Mary re-entered the office not without some trepidation. Two hours agoit would have seemed absurd to be frightened of Joe, but Eddy hadbrought it home to her again how completely she was dependent on herformer serf's good-will. And he had told her to be back at two sharp,and it was now nearly a quarter past.
The outer office was empty. She went on into the inner room.
She had speculated as she went on Joe's probable attitude. She hadpictured him as annoyed, even rude. What she was not prepared for wasto find him on all fours, grunting and rooting about in a pile ofpapers. She stopped short.
'What _are_ you doing?' she gasped.
'I can't think what you meant,' he said. 'There must be some mistake.I'm not even a passable pig. I couldn't deceive a novice.'
He rose and dusted his knees.
'Yet you seemed absolutely certain in the restaurant just now. Did younotice that you were sitting near to a sort of jungle of potted palms?I was lunching immediately on the other side of the forest.'
Mary drew herself up and fixed him with an eye that shone with rage andscorn.
'Eavesdropper!' she cried.
'Not guilty,' he said, cheerfully. 'I hadn't a notion that you werethere till you shouted, "That pig Joe, I hate him!" and almost directlyafterwards I left.'
'I did not shout.'
'My dear girl, you cracked a wine-glass at my table. The man I waslunching with jumped clean out of his seat and swallowed his cigar. Youought to be more careful!'
Mary bit her lip.
'And now, I suppose, you are going to dismiss me?'
'Dismiss you? Not much. The thing has simply confirmed my high opinionof your qualifications. The ideal secretary must have two qualities:she must be able to sec. and she must think her employer a pig. Youfill the bill. Would you mind taking down this letter?'
* * * * *
Life was very swift and stimulating for Mary during the early days ofher professional career. The inner workings of a busy broker's officeare always interesting to the stranger. She had never understood howbusiness men made their money, and she did not understand now; but itdid not take her long to see that if they were all like Joe Rendal theyearned it. There were days of comparative calm. There were days thatwere busy. And there were days that packed into the space of a fewhours the concentrated essence of a music-hall knock-about sketch, anearthquake, a football scrummage, and the rush-hour on the Tube; whenthe office was full of shouting men, when strange figures dived in andout and banged doors like characters in an old farce, and Harold, theproud office-boy, lost his air of being on the point of lunching with aduke at the club and perspired like one of the proletariat. On theseoccasions you could not help admiring Joe, even if you hated him. Whena man is doing his own job well, it is impossible not to admire him.And Joe did his job well, superlatively well. He was everywhere. Whereothers trotted, he sprang. Where others raised their voices, he yelled.Where others were in two places at once, he was in three and movingtowards a fourth.
These upheavals had the effect on Mary of making her feel curiouslylinked to the firm. On ordinary days work was work, but on theseoccasions of storm and stress it was a fight, and she looked on everymember of the little band grouped under the banner of J. Rendal as abrother-in-arms. For Joe, while the battle raged, she would have doneanything. Her resentment at being under his orders vanished completely.He was her captain, and she a mere unit in the firing line. It was aprivilege to do what she was told. And if the order came sharp andabrupt, that only meant that the fighting was fierce and that she wasall the more fortunate in being in a position to be of service.
The reaction would come with the end of the fight. Her privatehostilities began when the firm's ceased. She became an ordinaryindividual again, and so did Joe. And to Joe, as an ordinaryindividual, she objected. There was an indefinable something in hismanner which jarred on her. She came to the conclusion that it wasprincipally his insufferable good-humour. If only he would lose histemper with her now and then, she felt he would be bearable. He lost itwith others. Why not with her? Because, she told herself bitterly, hewanted to show her that she mattered so little to him that it was notworth while quarrelling with her; because he wanted to put her in thewrong, to be superior. She had a perfect right to hate a man whotreated her in that way.
She compared him, to his disadvantage, with Eddy. Eddy, during thesedays, continued to be more and more of a comfort. It rather surprisedher that he found so much time to devote to her. When she had firstcalled on him, on her arrival in the city, he had given her theimpression--more, she admitted, by his manner than his words--that shewas not wanted. He had shown no disposition to seek her company. Butnow he seemed always to be on hand. To take her out to lunch appearedto be his chief hobby.
One afternoon Joe commented on it, with that air of suppressing anindulgent smile which Mary found so trying.
'I saw you and Eddy at Stephano's just now,' he said, between sentencesof a letter which he was dictating. 'You're seeing a great deal ofEddy, aren't you?'
'Yes,' said Ma
ry. 'He's very kind. He knows I'm lonely.' She paused.'_He_ hasn't forgotten the old days,' she said, defiantly.
Joe nodded.
'Good old Eddy!' he said.
There was nothing in the words to make Mary fire up, but much in theway they were spoken, and she fired up accordingly.
'What do you mean?' she cried.
'Mean?' queried Joe.
'You're hinting at something. If you have anything to say against Eddy,why don't you say it straight out?'
'It's a good working rule in life never to say anything straight out.Speaking in parables, I will observe that, if America was a monarchyinstead of a republic and people here had titles, Eddy would be acertainty for first Earl of Pearl Street.'
Dignity fought with curiosity in Mary for a moment. The latter won.
'I don't know what you mean! Why Pearl Street?'
'Go and have a look at it.'
Dignity recovered its ground. Mary tossed her head.
'We are wasting a great deal of time,' she said, coldly. 'Shall I takedown the rest of this letter?'
'Great idea!' said Joe, indulgently. 'Do.'
* * * * *
A policeman, brooding on life in the neighbourhood of City Hall Parkand Broadway that evening, awoke with a start from his meditations tofind himself being addressed by a young lady. The young lady had largegrey eyes and a slim figure. She appealed to the aesthetic taste of thepoliceman.
'Hold to me, lady,' he said, with gallant alacrity. 'I'll see yezacrost.'
'Thank you, I don't want to cross,' she said. 'Officer!'
The policeman rather liked being called 'Officer'.
'Ma'am?' he beamed.
'Officer, do you know a street called Pearl Street?'
'I do that, ma'am.'
She hesitated. 'What sort of street is it?'
The policeman searched in his mind for a neat definition.
'Darned crooked, miss,' he said.
He then proceeded to point the way, but the lady had gone.
It was a bomb in a blue dress that Joe found waiting for him at theoffice next morning. He surveyed it in silence, then raised his handsover his head.
'Don't shoot,' he said. 'What's the matter?'
'What right had you to say that about Eddy? You know what I mean--aboutPearl Street.'
Joe laughed.
'Did you take a look at Pearl Street?'
Mary's anger blazed out.
'I didn't think you could be so mean and cowardly,' she cried. 'Youought to be ashamed to talk about people behind their backs,when--when--besides, if he's what you say, how did it happen thatyou engaged me on his recommendation?'
He looked at her for an instant without replying. 'I'd have engagedyou,' he said, 'on the recommendation of a syndicate of forgers andthree-card-trick men.'
He stood fingering a pile of papers on the desk.
'Eddy isn't the only person who remembers the old days, Mary,' he saidslowly.
She looked at him, surprised. There was a note in his voice that shehad not heard before. She was conscious of a curious embarrassment anda subtler feeling which she could not analyse. But before she couldspeak, Harold, the office-boy, entered the room with a card, and theconversation was swept away on a tidal wave of work.
* * * * *
Joe made no attempt to resume it. That morning happened to be one ofthe earthquake, knock-about-sketch mornings, and conversation, whatthere was of it, consisted of brief, strenuous remarks of a purelybusiness nature.
But at intervals during the day Mary found herself returning to hiswords. Their effect on her mind puzzled her. It seemed to her thatsomehow they caused things to alter their perspective. In some way Joehad become more human. She still refused to believe that Eddy was notall that was chivalrous and noble, but her anger against Joe for hisinsinuations had given way to a feeling of regret that he should havemade them. She ceased to look on him as something wantonly malevolent,a Thersites recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there musthave been a misunderstanding somewhere and was sorry for it.
Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to removethis misunderstanding. The days which followed strengthened thedecision; for the improvement in Joe was steadily maintained. Theindefinable something in his manner which had so irritated her hadvanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebulous that words werenot needed to eliminate it. Indeed, even now she could not say exactlyin what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmosphere hadchanged. Without a word spoken on either side it seemed that peace hadbeen established between them, and it amazed her what a difference itmade. She was soothed and happy, and kindly disposed to all men, andevery day felt more strongly the necessity of convincing Joe and Eddyof each other's merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, sheadmitted, always spoke most generously of the other.
For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day,however, he rang her up on the telephone, and invited her to lunch.
Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch.
'I'm so sorry,' said Mary; 'I've just promised Eddy. He wants me tomeet him at Stephano's, but--' She hesitated. 'Why shouldn't we alllunch together?' she went on, impulsively.
She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subjectof Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversationa week before, and she was uncertain of her ground.
'I wish you liked Eddy, Joe,' she said. 'He's very fond of you, and itseems such a shame that--I mean--we're all from the same old town,and--oh, I know I put it badly, but--'
'I think you put it very well,' said Joe; 'and if I could like a man toorder I'd do it to oblige you. But--well, I'm not going to keep harpingon it. Perhaps you'll see through Eddy yourself one of these days.'
A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on herhat without replying, and turned to go.
At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did soshe met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had sooften seen him look three years before in Dunsterville--humbly,appealingly, hungrily.
He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were onthe door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.
She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed sothoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness andawkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, hismanner--everything had pointed to that. And now--it was as if thosethree years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were--herself.
Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her likesome physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her.If only she could get away from them and think quietly--
And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.
'Glad you could come,' he said. 'I've something I want to talk to youabout. It'll be quiet at Stephano's.'
She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He wasunwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think.
He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming withhis fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over andthe coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward.
'Mary,' he said, 'we've always been pretty good friends, haven't we?'
His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in themthat was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that therewas effort behind the smile.
'Of course we have, Eddy,' she said. He touched her hand.
'Dear little Mary!' he said, softly.
He paused for a moment.
'Mary,' he went on, 'you would like to do me a good turn? You would,wouldn't you, Mary?'
'Why, Eddy, of course!'
He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated onher. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidenceof
friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality,--ofcalculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in hersome watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.
He drew in a quick breath.
'It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I--I--Joe will bewriting a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday--Thursdayremember. There won't be anything in it--nothing of importance--nothingprivate--but--I--I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A--a copyof--'
She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.
'For goodness' sake,' he said, irritably, 'don't look like that. I'mnot asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you? Look here,Mary; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I'm the only man inNew York that's ever done anything for you. Didn't I get you your job?Well, then, it's not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous,or difficult, or--'
She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not lookat her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.
'Look here,' he said; 'I'll be square with you. You're in New York tomake money. Well, you aren't going to make it hammering a typewriter.I'm giving you your chance. I'm going to be square with you. Let me seethat letter, and--'
His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. Hesmiled, and this time the effort was obvious.
'Halloa, Joe!' he said.
Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large andwholesome and restful.
'I don't want to intrude,' he said; 'but I wanted to see you, Eddy, andI thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Westonyesterday--after I got home from the office--and one to you; andsomehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn'tmatter much, because they both said the same thing.'
'The same thing?'
'Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tipyou something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Westonhas just rung me up on the 'phone to say that he got a letter thatdoesn't belong to him. I explained to him and thought I'd drop in hereand explain to you. Why, what's your hurry, Eddy?'
Eddy had risen from his seat.
'I'm due back at the office,' he said, hoarsely.
'Busy man! I'm having a slack day. Well, good-bye. I'll see Mary back.'
Joe seated himself in the vacant chair.
'You're looking tired,' he said. 'Did Eddy talk too much?'
'Yes, he did ... Joe, you were right.'
'Ah--Mary!' Joe chuckled. 'I'll tell you something I didn't tell Eddy.It wasn't entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters inthe wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn't throughcarelessness at all. There's an old gentleman in Pittsburgh by the nameof John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of someof his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of theworld knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to getearly information too. Do you remember my telling you that yourpredecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. Iengaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. Sheconfided in Eddy. From the look on your face as I came in I gatheredthat he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar actof Christian charity. Had he?'
Mary clenched her hands.
'It's this awful New York!' she cried. 'Eddy was never like that inDunsterville.'
'Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope,' said Joe.
'New York changes everything,' Mary returned. 'It has changed Eddy--ithas changed you.'
He bent towards her and lowered his voice.
'Not altogether,' he said. 'I'm just the same in one way. I've tried topretend I had altered, but it's no use. I give it up. I'm still justthe same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you inDunsterville.'
A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiterscultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction.Joe leaned farther forward, speaking quickly.
'And for whom,' he said, 'you didn't care a single, solitary snap ofyour fingers, Mary.'
She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop.Suddenly she smiled.
'New York has changed me too, Joe,' she said.
'Mary!' he cried.
'Ze pill, sare,' observed the waiter.
Joe turned.
'Ze what!' he exclaimed. 'Well, I'm hanged! Eddy's gone off and left meto pay for his lunch! That man's a wonder! When it comes to brain-work,he's in a class by himself.' He paused. 'But I have the luck,' he said.