“I––hardly think so, Bob. That’s a pet scheme of Anna’s, and besides, we need it. It’s good advertising.”
His friend’s eyes were round and childlike. “Made any plans for the future, Henry? Know what you’ll do if you stub your toe?”
“Sell out and strike you for a job, I guess.”
“Don’t believe it would work, old man.”
“Don’t you think so?”
“One pal boss another? Too much family.”
Henry looked serious. “I’m sorry you think so. I wouldn’t have kicked.”
“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t give you a job, old dear. I like you too well to bawl you out. But maybe we’ll do business together some other way.”
As he drove his tin runabout homeward, Henry was unusually downcast. He didn’t blame Standish––Standish had showed himself over and over to be Henry’s best friend on earth. But it was dispiriting to realize how Standish must privately appraise him. Henry recalled the justification, and grew red to think of the ten years of their acquaintance––ten years of continuous achievement for Standish, and only a few months of compulsory display for himself. But he wished that Standish hadn’t thrown in that last remark about doing business together some other way. That wasn’t like Bob, and it hurt. It was too infernally commercial.