“Spoken like a courageous and candid soul,” laughed Webster. “Stick to it; don’t be beaten. If she’s anything like your limning of her, she’s worth some sort of an effort.”
In a little while Kenyon arose.
“I must get some sleep,” said he. “I begin to feel a bit tired.”
“Where are you stopping? Why not make a shift here, where we can keep in touch with each other.”
“I’m putting up at a clean little German place down town; in fact it’s very much down town. I can see the trees of Battery Park from my window.”
“You’re broke,” stated Webster, firmly.
Kenyon gestured his admission of the charge.
“Otherwise, why the job in the stoke-hole of the Blenheim on my way up?” said he.
Webster assumed the countenance of delight.
“Now, by all that’s providential,” he cried, “I’ve got you, at last. When we were at college and I’d go down the line, scattering my change, you’d lend me yours in a fatherly, patronizing way that was peculiarly aggravating. And this is my first chance to get back; I’ve never caught you broke before.”