Henry looked across at the Judge. “Might as well have my brains where my hair is, mightn’t I? She sees it just as easy.... All right; we’ll let the whole thing ride ’till I’ve seen Bob.”
His friend Standish, gazing with childlike solemnity out of his big blue eyes, listened to both sides of the story, and to Henry’s miscalculation, at no time during the recital did he laugh uproariously, or exclaim compassionately, or indicate that he shared any of Henry’s conclusions:
“Oh, yes,” he said, “people might giggle a bit. But they always giggle at a man’s first shot at business, anyway. Like his first pair of long trousers. It’s done. But how many times will they do it? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? At maybe seven dollars a giggle? For less than that, I’d 84 be a comedian. I’d be a contortionist. I’d be a pie-thrower. Henry, old rubbish, you do what they tell you to.”
“Would you do it if you were in my place?”
“Would I lie down like a yellow dog, and let people say I hadn’t sand enough to stop a wristwatch?”
“I know, but Bob––the Orpheum!”
“I know, but Henry––don’t you sort of owe it to Mr. Starkweather? You wouldn’t have put on this milk-fed expression if he’d soaked it to you himself, would you?”
At this precise instant, Henry was required on the telephone. It was his Aunt Mirabelle; and even if he had been dining with royalty, she would still have called him––if she could have got the address.
“Henry,” she said acidly. “I’ve just found out what kind of a building it was your uncle deeded you. Theodore Mix told me. I didn’t know your uncle was ever messed up in that kind of a thing. He never told me. Good reason he didn’t, too. I certainly hope you aren’t going to spread this news around town, Henry––it’s scandalous enough to have it in 85 the family, even. Of all the hellish influences we’ve got to contend with in this day and generation––”
“Well,” said Henry, “it isn’t any of it my fault, is it?”