He was walking out along Massachusetts Avenue broad and dusty through the little jigsawed houses of Somerville. In was a bitter slategrey day of razorcold wind. In the irritation of his mood he took joy in the dust smarting in his eyes and the ache of the cold in his forehead. Gradually his thoughts faded under the regular beat of his steps. It was Sunday and church bells had begun to ring. Gee, I must go home or I'll be getting blue again, he said to himself; the biddy 'll have done the room. He walked back towards Cambridge without thinking of anything, shivering, his hands deep in his pockets. When he had slammed the door behind him he threw himself on the bed, his cheeks throbbing from the wind, and lay a long while staring blankly at the ceiling.
He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. Now he's waiting while they sing the first hymn, fiddling with his prayerbook, wondering if he's forgotten any of the main headings of the sermon. And I'm just like him. Less energy that's all. A chip of the old block. Listen to them settling back flabbily into their pews in the mustard yellow, mudpurple, niggerpink light from the imitation stained glass windows. Now they're on their feet again, better than trained seals. His voice so suave so booming—my voice will be like that—Let us pray.
Wenny sat up on the edge of the bed. God damn my father; I will live him down if it kills me.
He started turning over the pages of the books on his table, seeking escape in their familiar chattering type, in the accustomedness of their smell from the eating acid of his thoughts.
* * * *
Outside of Herb Roscoe's door, Wenny was struck by the usual faint smell of oiled leather and pipesmoke. A tall man in a grey flannel shirt with face and neck and forearms lean and very tanned, opened the door slowly to his knock.
"How's the armory?" said Wenny.
"Pretty good. How's yourself?" said Roscoe in a deep drawling voice. "Sit down." As he spoke he swept a pile of books off the arms of the morrischair. Then he stood in the fireplace, where a pair of high leather moccasins were to soak in a pan of oil, polishing a rifle while he talked. "Gee, you should have seen the scores we made at rifle practice yesterday. Not a soul could hit a barn door. I think we'll have the rottenest damn team... God, I hate this place."
"So do I," said Wenny, lying back in the chair with his eyes half closed.
"Why don't you get out of it. I'm goin' the very minute I get my degree like a flash o' lightnin'."