But he entered the bank pledged to take a hike with Warren that afternoon after closing time, and Warren was to come home to dinner that night with him. Mrs. Summers had asked him at the breakfast-table. So the pleasant ties that were binding him to Marlborough multiplied, and weakened his purpose of leaving; and from day to day he held on, each day thinking to go the next. If he had had money, even a little, or any sense of where he might go, it would have been different, perhaps, for ever over him hung the fear of the return of the real Murray, though each day, nay each hour, that passed in security weakened his realization of it, and at times almost obliterated the thought of it as a possibility.
Then there began to happen the strangest things that he had to do, things utterly alien to all of his former life.
There was the first Sunday. It came like a shock to him.
Saturday afternoon he and Warren took a hike, and on the way back he asked when Murray would like to go again.
“Why not tomorrow?” answered Murray, remembering that there would be no bank open on Sunday.
“Why, that’s Sunday, old man,” said Warren, laughing.
There was such a look of amusement on Warren’s face that it warned Murray. Sunday! What the dickens difference did that make, he wondered? But he caught himself quickly. It must make some difference or Warren would not look like that, so he responded with a laugh.
“Oh, that’s so. Got my dates mixed, didn’t I? Well, let’s see. What do we do in Marlborough? How is the day laid out on Sunday? Much doing?”
“Well, not much time for idling, of course. We have our Ushers’ Association meeting in the morning before church. They’ll be sure to elect you to that. They were speaking about it.”
“Ushers’ Association?” said Murray, puzzled.