When my tale was ended he let me cry all over
his desk, with my head buried in a heap of galley-proofs
and my tears watering his paste-pot. He sat calmly by,
smoking. Finally he began gently to philosophize. "Now
girl, he's prob'ly better off there than he ever was at
home with his mother soused all the time. Maybe he give
that warty matron friend of yours all kinds of trouble,
yellin' for his ma."
I raised my head from the desk. "Oh, you can talk!
You didn't see him. What do you care! But if you could
have seen him, crouched there--alone--like a little
animal! He was so sweet--and lovable--and--and--he
hadn't been decently washed for weeks--and his arms clung
to me--I can feel his hands about my neck!--"
I buried my head in the papers again. Blackie went
on smoking. There was no sound in the little room except
the purr-purring of Blackie's pipe. Then:
"I done a favor for Wheeling once," mused he.
I glanced up, quickly. "Oh, Blackie, do you think--"
"No, I don't. But then again, you can't never tell.
That was four or five years ago, and the mem'ry of past
favors grows dim fast. Still, if you're through waterin'
the top of my desk, why I'd like t' set down and do a
little real brisk talkin' over the phone.
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