One afternoon late in October, when the scarlet leaves were blowing across his little front yard and the screens had been taken from the windows, a big green automobile stopped at his gate and a tall man got out and came briskly up the walk. Harvey was sitting in the library helping Phoebe with her ABC’s when he caught sight of the visitor crossing the porch.
“Gentleman to see you,” said Annie, a moment later.
“Is it the butcher’s man? I declare, I must get in and attend to that little account. Tell him I’ll be in, Annie.”
“It ain’t the butcher. It’s a swell.”
Harvey got up, felt of the four days’ growth of beard on his chin, and pondered.
“Did he give his name?”
“Mr. Fairfax, he said.”
He remembered Fairfax. His hand ran over his chin once more.
“Tell him to come in. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”
He went upstairs on the jump and got his 78 razor out. He was nervous. Only that morning he had written to Nellie telling her of Phoebe’s expensive illness and of her joyous recovery. The doctor’s bill was ninety dollars. He cut himself in three places.