At the Fourteenth street corner a suspicious cop had stopped Hilgy with a question. This was nuts to Hilgy. Putting down his end of the trunk, he walked down the line, introducing each fellow by name to the officer with a childlike air. . . .
Wilfred lost in the scene he was picturing, snickered aloud. A low voice at his ear recalled him to his surroundings; the bed; Stanny’s room; Stanny himself alongside.
“Aren’t you asleep, Wilf?”
“No. I thought you were.”
“Hell! I can’t sleep.”
Stanny slipped his arm through Wilfred’s. It was the first time since Wilfred could remember, that anybody had made such an overture in his direction; he caught his breath and felt quite silly and confused. He pressed Stanny’s arm hard against his ribs, and neither said anything.
Finally Stanny asked: “What were you laughing at?”
“At Hilgy and the cop,” said Wilfred. “I’ve been going over it in my mind . . . trying to find words.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Stanny, “when you start dramatizing a thing you spoil it!”
“I know,” said Wilfred eagerly, “I know just the point when analysing things becomes barren. I stop short of that now. It’s all right to think about things when you can keep yourself detached from them.”