“That so?” said Stanny with interest. “We haven’t got a writer in our bunch.”
Wilfred’s heart almost burst out of his breast. Did he mean anything by that? . . . But probably not.
Thenceforward, talk never failed.
The three youths left the restaurant together. A despair had seized upon Wilfred. There was nothing further he could do to prolong the occasion. He had no place where he could ask them to come. This was the end! They paused on the sidewalk.
“Which way you go?” asked Stanny, offhand.
“I live in Eleventh street.”
“Walk around by the Avenue with us.”
So he obtained five minutes reprieve. At the Eleventh street corner they paused again. Wilfred’s heart was low. His tongue clave to his palate.
Stanny said in the forthright manner that became his doughty self so well: “Look here; I’ve got a garret up on Fourteenth street. Jasper’s coming up. Would you like to come and look at my stuff?”
Would he! Wilfred could scarcely reply. “Oh yes!” he murmured. “I was hoping you would ask me.”