Just a week to the day before the 6th of September—the one numeral on the calendar he could see with his eyes closed—he shuffled over to the tailor’s to try on the new Prince Albert coat and striped trousers that Mrs. Davis was giving him for a wedding present. He puffed weakly at the cigarette that hung from his lips and stared at the window without the slightest interest in what was going on outside.
A new train of thought was taking shape in his brain, as yet rather indefinite and undeveloped, but quite engaging as a matter for contemplation.
“Do you know how far it is to Reno?” he asked of the tailor, who paused in the process of ripping off the collar of the new coat.
“Couple of thousand miles, I guess. Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Harvey, blinking his eyes curiously. “I just asked.”
“You’re not thinking of going out there, are you?” 227
“My health isn’t what it ought to be,” said Harvey, staring westward over the roof of the church down the street. “If I don’t get better I may have to go West.”
“Gee, is it as bad as all that?”
Harvey’s lips parted to give utterance to a vigorous response, but he caught himself up in time.
“Maybe it won’t amount to anything,” he said, noncommittally. “I’ve got a little cough, that’s all.” He coughed obligingly, in the way of illustration.