“What do you think you’d like to do now?” asked Hewitt, after a moment, bracing himself to support his burden.
“Wait till I get my breath, and we’ll do—everything,” panted the burden. It laughed hysterical, extremely silly little laughs. Then solemnly, soberly, Bradley led the way to the curbstone. “Come over here—I want to talk to you; sit down,” he said. “Will you wait here and not let a sparrow get by—not a single one—while I dash across and find something to drink?”
“It’s getting cold, Bradley; how long will you be?”
“You won’t know I’ve been gone, I’ll be so quick.” He was off,—half way across the street like a skittish young animal,—then tip-toeing back, stealthy, furtive, mysterious. He crouched by the man on the curbstone, and with his mouth close to Hewitt’s ear whispered earnestly:—
“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell? It’s a secret, you know.”
“I don’t think you’d better,” gravely.
“I must,—it’s killing me.”
Horace looked to see if the fellow was crying.
“I’ll never repeat it to any one,” he promised.
“It’s awful,—horrible,” moaned Bradley, drawing closer to Hewitt, and putting his arms round him. “It’s this,” he sobbed; “I don’t believe in either Space or Time.” He was gone again, with a backward spring that sent the other sprawling. Horace sat up and watched the boy dart across to an opposite house, fumble a moment at the door, and disappear with a slam. Instantly every window upstairs and down glowed yellow. The noise of a piano, slapped pettishly from bass to treble by an open palm, came over to the young man who sat thinking on the curbstone.