Conrad came back along the passage.
“They’re all right: talking like a couple of magpies,” he said, then catching sight of O’Brien’s white, strained face, he went on, “You’re looking pretty sick, Tom. Why don’t you get off to bed? I’ll wait here for Weiner.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” O’Brien snapped. “For the love of mike, lay off, will you? I’m going to bed, anyway, as soon as this punk’s finished.”
Conrad offered his pack of cigarettes, but O’Brien shook his head.
For a long moment the two men stood listening to the violence of the storm, then Conrad asked, “How’s your boy, Tom?”
“He’s all right,” O’Brien returned, giving Conrad a quick, startled look.
“Ever thought how damned lucky you are?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that.” I’ve always wanted a son, but Janey won’t hear of it. She says it’d spoil her figure.”
“It could at that,” O’Brien said, scarcely knowing what he was saying. “A girl