The man in the shadow veered suddenly from the wall he had been leaning against into the light; and Horace—seeing him distinctly for the first time—realised that it was his classmate, Bradley. Coming immediately after the talk with Curtiss, this meeting was startling to Horace. It seemed almost prearranged. He gently forced Bradley to take the overcoat, said good-night, and turned to walk away.
“Don’t go to bed! Oh, don’t go to bed!” pleaded Bradley, in a sort of engaging whimper. His clutch at Hewitt’s shoulder might have been either a gesture of entreaty or a measure of safety. “It’s early—awf’ly early. The longer you stay up in Cambridge the earlier it gets; and the sparrows walk all over Mount Auburn Street in the morning and sing,—corking big ones, like ostriches,—seen them lots of times. Don’t go to bed!”
“I’m afraid I must,” said Horace, looking gravely into his classmate’s large, kindly eyes, that swam helplessly, and focussed nothing. Bradley took possession of Hewitt’s other shoulder; then, in the intimate confidential tone that for so long had ceased to exist for Horace, he said, “I don’t want to go to bed—come on!”
The invitation, though as to form rather indefinite, was most sincere. There was distinctly some sort of an intention in Bradley’s wish to have the other man “Come on;” he spoke as if he already had expressed it. Hewitt, scanning his drawn face, and then lowering his glance to the snowy shirt-bosom, tried hard to find out, without asking, exactly where “on” was. Of course, any proposition from the fellow just then might be, in a general way, safely interpreted, “More drinks;” instinct told Horace that. But beyond this broad point of departure, along what lines did the amiable tipsy young person intend to proceed? He was becoming every moment more demonstrative, more insistent, and by reason of his condition, rather than in spite of it, more irresistible. Was he going back to town? Did he have some stuff in his own room? Or had he, perhaps, reached the stage that plans nothing more elaborate than the primitive, genial pastime of lurching, arm in arm, along the streets and making a noise? Bradley suddenly answered the unput questions by suggesting ways and means.
“We can wait until somebody comes out in a cab, and go back in it; done it lots of times.” He gave Hewitt a little urging shake.
“Why, you’ve just come from town about a minute ago!” Horace’s attempt to back gently from under his friend’s nervous hands was a failure. Bradley gave him the long, wise look of one whose mind is blank, until a slow sort of inspiration enabled him to exclaim,—
“Well, you can’t stay in there all alone, can you? “—a very telling bit of argument. “I came out here to get you; that’s why I came out.”
Hewitt burst into honest laughter. This tall child struck him as indescribably funny and young and drunk. Then, with a quick downward wriggle, he broke away, still laughing, and made a dash for the steps. Hatless, wild-eyed Bradley, screaming curses into the night, had him round the knees, as he stumbled across the top step to the door. Together they rolled and slid, scuffling, gasping, to the brick sidewalk.
“You would try to get away from me, would you? What a hell of a dirty trick to play a man! You would, would you?”
“Get off my stomach, Bradley, you hurt me.”