I shook my head, and we walked on in silence for awhile.
“You may marry,” he was beginning, but at the black cloud apparent on my face he caught himself up, saying: “I can’t believe you have no future ahead of you, man.” He went on, gravely: “Dale, I want to be assured that you look upon me as a friend. We know each other rather well, and I think we find each other congenial. We have had some rather interesting arguments during our jovial evenings with Captain Grif. At first I thought you were a genius. But I know you better now. I have studied you. You’re normal, splendidly balanced, healthy, resistant. You’re clever and plodding—you’ll make good. But you are not a genius. I like you immensely. Certain things I have gathered from Wanza make me feel that at times you need a friendly hand—that you are breasting treacherous currents, even now. Come, Dale, I’d be your friend.”
He held out his hand, mine went out to meet it and we struck palms warmly. I said then:
“I have not been a black sheep. It’s a shadow on my past that keeps me here, of course. But the story is not my own—it must be kept inviolate. But my present troubles and ambitions are for your ear—if you will have them. There’s my sordid, pinching poverty—you know of that—and—I am writing a book—”
He caught his lip between his teeth; his eyes flashed at me; he appraised me.
“What sort of book?”
“A novel. A story with a strong nature atmosphere. Someway I feel it will be a success.”
“Good! Success to you. Success to you—and Wanza.”
“Wanza!” I cried, starting uncontrollably. “What has she to do with it? Wanza—that child?” I finished smilingly.
“A child, is she?” He came to a halt in front of me. “David Dale, be careful in your dealings with that child. Forgive me—I asked you to bear me company that I might say this to you. Be careful.”