He sees the gaunt figure of the stone-cutter coming across the square at his earth-devouring stride. He hears him muttering underneath his breath the mounting preludes of his huge invective. He sees him striding on for ever, bent forward in his haste, wetting his thumb and clearing his throat with an infuriated and anticipatory relish as he comes. He sees him striding round the corner, racing up-hill towards the house, bearing huge packages of meat beneath his arm. He sees him take the high front steps four at a time, hasten like a hurricane into the house, lay down the meat upon the kitchen table, and then without a pause or introduction, comes the storm—fire, frenzy, curses, woes and lamentations, and then news out of the streets, the morning’s joy, the smoking and abundant dinner.
A thousand memories of that life of constant and unresting fury brim in the boy’s mind in an instant. At this moment, with telescopic force, all of these memories of his father’s life become fused and blurred to one terrific image, in which it seems that the whole packed chronicle, from first to last, is perfectly comprised.
At the same moment the boy became conscious that the men were getting up around him, preparatory to departure, and that the florid-faced man, who had been speaking of his father, had laid his hand upon his shoulder in a friendly gesture, and was speaking to him.
“Good night, son,” the man was saying. “I’m getting off at Washington. If I don’t see you again, good luck to you. I suppose you’ll be getting off at Baltimore to see your father before you go on, won’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” the boy stammered confusedly, getting to his feet.
“Remember me to him, won’t you? Tell him you saw Frank Candler on the train and he sent his best regards.”
“Yes, sir—thank you—I will,” the boy said.
“All right. And good luck to you, boy,” the politician said, giving him his broad, fleshy and rather tender hand. “Give’em hell when you get up there,” he said quietly, with a firm, friendly clasp and a good-natured wink.
“Yes—I certainly will—thank you—” the boy stammered, flaming in the face, with a feeling of proud hope, and with affection for the man who had spoken to him.
Then the man had gone, but his words had brought back to the boy suddenly the knowledge that in the morning he was to see his father. And that knowledge instantly destroyed all the exultancy of flight and darkness, the incredible realization of his
