“No, no! It's this. I thought I'd write a letter to Al, and you'd give it to him afterwards, a year afterwards—supposing—you see?”
He hesitated pitifully.
“All right, I'll do that.”
“I won't write it now.”
“I see.”
“You'll keep it still? You won't tell? You won't get a grudge against Al? If you do! No. I know about you. You won't tell.”
“No, I won't. Well, good-night, then.”
“Good-night.”
His voice was husky and weak now. He put out his hand, hesitating. Hennion took it promptly. It felt like a wet, withered leaf.
Hennion went and knocked at the door, which Sweeney opened. Hicks sat still by the table, looking down, straggling locks of his black hair plastered wet against his white forehead, his finger nails scratching the boards.