“I—­”

“Well—­”

“I never got out of Liverpool!  Worked in a restaurant....  But next time—!  I’ll go clean to Constantinople!” Morton exploded.  “And I did see a lot of English life in Liverpool.”

Mr. Wrenn talked long and rapidly of the world’s baseball series, and Regal vs. Walkover shoes.

He tried to think of something they could do.  Suddenly: 

“Say, Morty, I know an awful nice guy down here in a cigar-store.  Let’s go down and see him.”

“All right.”

Tom Poppins was very cordial to them.  He dragged brown canvas stools out of the tobacco-scented room where cigars were made, and the three of them squatted in the back of the store, while Tom gossiped of the Juarez races, Taft, cigar-wrappers, and Jews.  Morton was aroused to tell the time-mellowed story of the judge and the darky.  He was cheerful and laughed much and frequently said “Ah there, cull!” in general commendation.  But he kept looking at the clock on the jog in the wall over the watercooler.  Just at ten he rose abashedly, hesitated, and murmured, “Well, I guess I’ll have to be beating it home.”

From Mr. Wrenn:  “Oh, Morty!  So early?”

Tom:  “What’s the big hurry?”

“I’ve got to run clear over to Jersey City.”  Morton was cordial, but not convincing.

“Say—­uh—­Morton,” said Tom, kindly of face, his bald head shining behind his twin bangs, as he rose, “I’m going to have Wrenn up to dinner at my boarding-house next Monday.  Like to have you come along.  It’s a fine place—­Mrs. Arty—­she’s the landlady—­she’s a wonder.  There’s going to be a vacant room there—­maybe you two fellows could frame it up to take it, heh?  Understand, I don’t get no rake-off on this, but we all like to do what we can for M—­”

“No, no!” said Morton.  “Sorry.  Couldn’t do it.  Staying with my brother-in-law—­costs me only ’bout half as much as it would I don’t do much chasing around when I’m in town....  I’m going to save up enough money for a good long hike.  I’m going clean to St. Petersburg!...  But I’ve had a good time to-night.”

“Glad.  Great stuff about you fellows on the cattle-ship,” said Tom.

Morton hastened on, protectively, a bit critically:  “You fellows sport around a good deal, don’t you?...  I can’t afford to....  Well, good night.  Glad to met you, Mr. Poppins.  G’ night, old Wr—­”

“Going to the ferry?  For Jersey?  I’ll walk over with you,” said Mr. Wrenn.

Their walk was quiet and, for Mr. Wrenn, tragically sad.  He saw Morton (presumably) doing the wandering he had once planned.  He felt that, while making his vast new circle of friends, he was losing all the wild adventurousness of Bill Wrenn.  And he was parting with his first friend.

At the ferry-house Morton pronounced his “Well, so long, old fellow” with an affection that meant finality.