George Passant

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THE fire in our habitual public house spurted and fell. It was a comfortable fire of early autumn, and I basked beside it, not caring how long I waited. At last Jack came in, bustled by the other tables, sat down at mine, and said: ‘I’m in trouble, Lewis.’

For an instant I thought he was acting; as he went on, I believed him.

‘I’m finished as far as Calvert goes,’ he said. ‘And I can’t see my way out.’

‘What have you done?’

‘I’ve done nothing,’ said Jack. ‘But this morning I received a gift—’

‘Who from? Who from?’

‘From young Roy.’

I had heard Roy’s name often in the past two months. He was a boy of fifteen, the son of the Calvert whom Jack had just mentioned and who owned the local evening paper; Jack worked as a clerk in the newspaper office, and during the school holidays, which had not yet ended, the boy had contrived to get to know him. Jack, in his easy-natured fashion, had lent him books, been ready to talk; and had not discovered until the last few days that the boy was letting himself be carried in a dream, a romantic dream.

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