“Nan,” Eaton was saying, “needs plenty of air. She has suffered from claustrophobia in her life with the Farleys. Oh, yes; claustrophobia—”
He paused to explain the meaning of the word, which Jerry scribbled on an envelope that he might remember it and use it somewhere when opportunity offered.
“I’m glad Farley talked to you. You will find that he will ask to see you again, but be careful what you say to him about the store. He’ll be anxious to worm information out of you, but he’s the sort to distrust you if you seemed anxious to talk against the house or the head of it, much as he may dislike him.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Jerry. “He asked about the customers on the route I worked last year and seemed to know them all—even to the number of children in the family.”
“You’ve been back once since we called together? Anybody else around—any signs that Nan is receiving social attentions?”
“I didn’t see any. She’d been reading ‘Huck Finn’ to the old gent when I dropped in.”
“Isolated life; not wholesome. A girl like that needs to have people about her.”
“Well,” Jerry ejaculated, “she doesn’t need a scrub like me! I felt ashamed of myself for going; and had to walk around the block about seven times before I got my nerve up to go in. It’s awful, going into a house like that, and waiting for the coon to go off to see whether the folks want to see you or not.”
“The trepidation you indicate is creditable to you, Amidon. Your social instincts are crude but sound. Should you say, as a student of mankind and an observer of life, that Nan is pining away with a broken heart?”
“Well, hardly; she was a lot cheerfuler than she was that first time, when you went with me.”