He was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get the books to them and be assured of his money. To learn this, he went on the road himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. And it was upon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in his life some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirely different with him.
In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it was only twelve miles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of the greatest farms in the country. He thought of the last letter he had received from her, the letter that had come too late. And then he thought of what had passed since. Girls in her circumstances would not be likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wished that he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might have been his. But his courage failed him. He still had spirit and pride, so he gave it up for the time.
Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with some acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became quite jolly as cocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. He thought again of Irene Grey, and the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktails gave him the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephone he went and called her over long distance.
"Is this the Greys home?" he called.
"Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness of the voice at the other end.
"Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.
"Yes," it said. "This is she."
He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out of him on the instant. He choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said:
"Why—er—ah—this is a friend of yours. An old friend. Mayhap you have forgotten me."
"I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"