Henry Is Twenty. Samuel Merwin

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

       Table of Contents

      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 of photographs.

      The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where they had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found the splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the cracks.'

      He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know where to put 'em.'

      He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next to his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. He carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the rug.

      The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of his bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and electric lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and at the head of his bed.

      He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard to give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known it would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming again, and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant home was his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a dusty, cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the water pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so.

      'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused.

      He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he sighed.

      'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet.

      He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised. Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time. And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of his self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it on. Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to get him a key of his own.'

      There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures and garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs.

      'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box couch in for you to-night.'

      'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice.

      Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; and he compressed his lips and shook his head.

      Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for the first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey. He cleared his throat, and said aloud:—

      'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I make excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a pound or so of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and figure out a meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.'

      Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,' hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally wandered off down the stairs and out.

      He returned at twenty minutes past midnight.

      Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since six o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; at present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly suppressed wrath.

      Henry came into the room—a little flushed, bright of eye, the sensitive corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily upward. He even actually chuckled.

      'Well, where—on—earth....

      Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess I owe you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. Everything happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta swept off your feet like that——'

      'Like what!'

      'Oh—well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, it doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was weeks ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room; lingered on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface wiring with sudden interest.

      'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on the self-absorbed youth.

      'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese;