MARCH, 1928
Vol. XCIII NUMBER 2
Derelict
TELLING WHAT CHARLES HACKETT DID WHEN HE HAD HIS CHOICE BETWEEN A LIFE OF COMFORT AT HOME AND ONE OF ADVENTURE AND HARDSHIP IN THE TROPICS
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE private office was dim in the gray light of a March dusk; through the open window a chilly wind came blowing, with a fine drizzle of rain. Wickham Hackett sat at his desk, in a circle of light from the shaded lamp that illumined sharply his fine, haggard face, and made the graying hair on his temples glisten like silver. He had the look of some worn and ascetic recluse, sitting there in the chill and shadowy room.
He was making notes for his address to the board of directors. He knew very well that he could do this far better in the morning, that he was too tired now for any efficient work; but he was too tired to think of resting. The strain of his day had left him horribly tense, filled with an almost unbearable sense of exasperation and urgency.
His stenographer came to the open door.
“Will you want me any longer, Mr. Hackett?” she asked.
He was silent for a moment, struggling gallantly against his savage mood. He wanted to shout at her, to swear at her, to tell her that it was her business to stay as long as he did, and that she was a little fool, with her high heels and her powdered nose; but he held his tongue, turned away his head so that he need not see her, and answered mildly: