“Nothing much. Left a note on the table, I think.”
“You think! Don’t you ever know anything?” Jonesie got up and found the note. “It wouldn’t have hurt you a whole lot to have said something about this when I came in, you lazy chump!” He glanced at it and thrust it into a pocket. “It’s important, too,” he added severely. “You’re a wonder, Sparrow!”
“I forgot it,” said Sparrow untroubledly. “What’s it about?”
“None of your business.” Jonesie rescued his cap from the floor, borrowed Sparrow’s umbrella from the closet and hurried out.
“Come back with that brulla!” shouted Sparrow.
As this produced no result, he shrugged his shoulders, picked up his book and started reading again.
The note was signed “James A. Wigman,” and informed Jonesie that he was rooming at Mrs. Sproule’s on Center Street, adding that if Jonesie had time to drop around he’d take it as a great favor. Now Jonesie was not the least bit in the world interested in young Mr. Wigman. He had scraped acquaintance with him on the train for no other reason than he had exhausted all other means of entertainment. It had amused him to impose upon the new boy with an assumption of influence which he by no means possessed, and, once started, it was Jonesie’s artistic temperament which had led him to round off the incident with the presentation of a visiting card and an avowal of friendly interest. To-day, had there been anything else to occupy Jonesie’s talents, young Mr. Wigman’s appeal would probably have gone forever unanswered. But Jonesie was bored and a call on the new boy offered at least some slight variation of the monotony of life.
Wigman had a room to himself at Sproule’s, a dormer-windowed cell on the third floor. Pictures, rugs, pillows and knick-knacks had, however, lent an air of comfort to the white-walled apartment, and Jonesie, having been gratefully welcomed by Wigman and escorted to the only comfortable chair, affably commended the quarters.
“It isn’t bad, is it?” asked Wigman. “I brought quite a lot of truck from home.”