When he reached the head of the stairs, Garwood saw Pusey shambling across the office, tapping his little cane on the floor, as a blind man might, though he did it meditatively, as if he were striking at the crawling flies instead of the cockroaches from which he was separated. Garwood stiffened at the sight of this old enemy. His breath came fast, his cold sweat was succeeded by a flush of heat, and then:
“Oh, Pusey!” he called.
The editor turned. His quick eye caught the congressman on the stairs.
“Heh?” he said.
Garwood descended, with dignity now, for he was emerging into public view again. The editor drew slowly toward the staircase. They met.
“I’m going for a little walk—thought maybe the night air might refresh me. Care to go along?”
“Don’t care if I do,” said Pusey.
The office was deserted by all save the landlord who snoozed behind his counter, the insects that buzzed around the lamps, and the flies that walked like somnambulists across the ceiling, and on the walls. The two men sauntered carelessly toward the side door.
Once outside Garwood sniffed in eagerly the night air that bathed his brow.
“Isn’t it a bit cooler?” he said.