"Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I—I just wanted to say that I haven't the least idea whether—whether that young creature in the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me—I think that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you will consider me responsible—er—within the limits of a moderate income."
"Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you."
His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City's Wrath."
"Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother's copy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows something about the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city. He's looked pretty deep into people's lives."
No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave me greater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad.
"Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him.
"Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered.
I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindest regards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me.
"D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, and wrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in some time and—and chat about things with you, any evening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about—about people."
"My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to run away with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now, since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient."