Monet shrugged. "Yes … in a way. But I'm no great hand at doing things alone."
They walked on in silence. Finally Fred spoke.
"Suppose you and I try it sometime? … It will give us something to think about… But we'll go slow. It will just be a game, you understand."
Monet's eyes lit up and his breath came quickly between his parted lips. "You're splendid to me!" he cried. "But the others—you seem to hate them. Why?"
Fred kicked a fallen branch out of his path. "They whine too much!" he muttered.
The boy was right, he did hate them!
At the office he found that a package had come for him in the mail, and a letter. Both had been opened by the authorities. He read the letter first. It was from Helen. She had heard that cigarettes were a great solace to men in his situation, and so she had sent him a large carton of them. She expressed the hope that everything was going well, and she filled the rest of her letter with gossip of the Hilmers. Mrs. Hilmer was a little better and she was wheeling her out on fine days just in front of the house. The nurse had gone and she was doing everything. But these people had been so good to her! What else was there left to do? She ended with a restrained dignity. She offered neither sympathy nor reproaches. Fred had to concede that it was a master stroke of implied martyrdom. He flung the letter into the nearest wastebasket. He had an impulse to do the same thing with the cigarettes, but the thought of Monet's pleasure in them restrained him. He took the package to the dormitory. Monet had gone up before him.
Fred threw his burden on Monet's bed. The youth gave a low whistle of delight.
"Pall Malls!" he cried, incredulously. "Where did you get them?"
"They came from my wife."