So Joe talked then and, prompted by questions, told more about himself than he ever remembered confessing to anyone. But Mr. Graham had a way of making one talk that Joe couldn’t resist. In the midst of his narrative the conductor bore down on them again and Mr. Graham, despite Joe’s protest, paid for the latter’s seat in the Pullman to Detroit. And, later, although it scarcely seemed a half-hour since they had parted from the overwhelmed Mr. Chester Young in the smoking car, they rolled into Detroit and it was after midnight!
“When I come to this town,” said Mr. Graham as they waited in the vestibule for the train to stop, “I always put up at a small hotel on Grand River Avenue. It isn’t sumptuous, but it’s neat and quiet and they allow me to sleep late. Now, I propose that we walk leisurely up there, in order to stretch our legs, and that you become my guest for the night. In the morning we’ll have some breakfast together and then I’ll see you on your way back.”
“But I don’t think,” stammered Joe. “I mean I oughtn’t to let you do so much for me, Mr. Graham! I’ve got enough money to pay——”
“The money you have, Faulkner, belongs, as I understand it, to the firm of Faulkner and—well, whatever the other chap’s name is. And if you dissipate it in riotous living you’ll be a defaulter yourself. No, I think—Look, isn’t that our friend Mr. Young there? It is. I wonder, now, what he’s going to do in this town without money. Excuse me a minute.”
Mr. Graham left Joe at the car steps and dived hurriedly through the crowd about the train. Joe followed his course easily enough, since he was a head taller than most persons there, and so was witness to the little scene enacted on the platform beyond the crowd. Mr. Graham overtook Young there and for a moment they talked. Then the former put his hand in his pocket, drew forth his purse and passed some money to the other. After that, a hand on Young’s shoulder, Mr. Graham talked a moment longer. When he returned to Joe he picked up his bag and led the way out to Fort Street.
“I’m wondering,” he said as they stepped out briskly in search of the hotel where one could sleep late in the morning, “how much a promise is worth, Faulkner.”
“How much did you pay for it, sir?” asked Joe.
Mr. Graham laughed softly. “So you spied on me, eh? Well, it didn’t cost me much, Faulkner, but at that I’m afraid I overpaid. Here we are. Four blocks up Second Street and we’re almost there. I’m beginning to be a little bit sleepy. How about you?”
“I’m dead tired, sir.”
“Are you? Well, you can sleep as late as you like in the morning!”