“Come on,” said he, “we’ll go to see McGuire.”
As they walked townward, he tried to talk, explaining himself in babbling incoherent spurts.
“It was like this,” he began, “if I had known, but at that time I didn’t—of course I know it was my own fault for—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Ben impatiently. “Dry up! I don’t want to hear about it. I’m not your damned Guardian Angel.”
The news was comforting. So many people, after our fall from grace, are.
They mounted to the wide dark corridor of the Doctors’and Surgeons’, with its sharp excitement of medical smells. McGuire’s anteroom was empty. Ben rapped at the inner door. McGuire opened it: he pulled away the wet cigarette that was plastered on his heavy lip, to greet them.
“Hello, Ben. Hello, son!” he barked, seeing Eugene. “When’d you get back?”
“He thinks he’s dying of galloping consumption, McGuire,” said Ben, with a jerk of the head. “You may be able to do something to prolong his life.”
“What’s the matter, son?” said McGuire.
Eugene gulped dryly, craning his livid face.
“If you don’t mind,” he croaked. “See you alone.” He turned desperately upon his brother. “You stay here. Don’t want you with me.”
“I don’t want to go with you,” said Ben surlily. “I’ve got troubles enough of my own.”
Eugene followed McGuire’s burly figure into the office; McGuire closed the door, and sat down heavily at his littered desk.
“Sit down, son,” he commanded, “and tell me about it.” He lit a cigarette and stuck it deftly on his sag wet lip. He glanced keenly at the boy, noting his contorted face.
“Take your time, son,” he said kindly, “and control yourself. Whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as you think.”
“It was this way,” Eugene began in a low voice. “I’ve made a mistake. I know that. I’m willing to take my medicine. I’m not making any excuses for what has happened,” his voice rose sharply; he got half-way out of his chair, and began to pound fiercely
