The sun shone in at the
window, and some one laughed a little laugh somewhere
down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish, plunged into
a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had
arrived that day.
"S'elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a
Norfolk suit, and low-cut shoes with bows on 'em. On the
square he does. Looks like one of those Boston infants
you see in the comic papers. I don't believe he's real.
We're saving him until you get back, if the kids in the
alley don't chew him up before that time."
An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie's
face. He closed his eyes for a moment. Without their
light his countenance was ashen, and awful.
A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway.
She looked keenly at the little figure in the bed. Then
she turned to us.
"You must go now," she said. "You were just to see
him for a minute or two, you know."
Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his
lips. "Guess you guys ain't got th' stimulatin' effect
that a bunch of live wires ought to have. Say, Norberg,
tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don't keep the third
drawer t' the right in my desk locked, th' office kids'll
swipe all the roller rink passes surest thing you know.
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