“How do you do, Mr. Kendall,” he said; “I'm afraid that basket is rather heavy, isn't it. Mayn't I help you with it?” Then, seeing that the old gentleman did not recognize him, he added, “I am Albert Speranza.”
Down went the basket and the codfish and Mr. Kendall seized him by both hands.
“Why, of course, of course,” he cried. “Of course, of course. It's our young hero, isn't it. Our poet, our happy warrior. Yes,—yes, of course. So glad to see you, Albert. . . . Er . . . er . . . How is your mother?”
“You mean my grandmother? She is very well, thank you.”
“Yes—er—yes, your grandmother, of course. . . . Er . . . er. . . . Did you see my codfish? Isn't it a magnificent one. I am very fond of codfish and we almost never have it at home. So just now, I happened to be passing Jonathan Howes'—he is the—er—fishdealer, you know, and . . . Jonathan is a very regular attendant at my Sunday morning services. He is—is. . . . Dear me. . . . What was I about to say?”
Being switched back to the main track by Albert he explained that he had seen a number of cod in Mr. Howes' possession and had bought this specimen. Howes had lent him the basket.
“And the newspaper,” he explained; adding, with triumph, “I shall dine on codfish to-day, I am happy to say.” Judging by appearances he might dine and sup and breakfast on codfish and still have a supply remaining. Albert insisted on carrying the spoil to the parsonage. He was doing nothing in particular and it would be a pleasure, he said. Mr. Kendall protested for the first minute or so but then forgot just what the protest was all about and rambled garrulously on about affairs in the parish. He had failed in other faculties, but his flow of language was still unimpeded. They entered the gate of the parsonage. Albert put the basket on the upper step.
“There,” he said; “now I must go. Good morning, Mr. Kendall.”
“Oh, but you aren't going? You must come in a moment. I want to give you the manuscript of that sermon of mine on the casting down of Baal, that is the one in which I liken the military power of Germany to the brazen idol which. . . . Just a moment, Albert. The manuscript is in my desk and. . . . Oh, dear me, the door is locked. . . . Helen, Helen!”
He was shaking the door and shouting his daughter's name. Albert was surprised and not a little disturbed. It had not occurred to him that Helen could be at home. It is true that before he left for New York his grandmother had said that she was planning to return home to be with her father, but since then he had heard nothing more concerning her. Neither of his grandparents had mentioned her name in their letters, nor since his arrival the day before had they mentioned it. And Mr. Kendall had not spoken of her during their walk together. Albert was troubled and taken aback. In one way he would have liked to meet Helen very much indeed. They had not met since before the war. But he did not, somehow, wish to meet her just then. He did not wish to meet anyone who would speak of Madeline, or ask embarrassing questions. He turned to go.