“Oh, yes, you would. I’ll guarantee that. I’ll promise you that you’ll be in good standing with Addicks by next Saturday.”
Myron stared, surprised, doubtful. “How?” he asked at length.
“I’ll look after the ‘how,’ old man.”
“You mean you’ll tutor me again?”
Andrew nodded. Myron dropped his gaze to the counterpane. A minute of silence followed during which the ticking of Myron’s watch on the bedside table sounded loudly in the room. Then said Andrew briskly: “There’s a New York train at ten, I think. That’ll give you time for breakfast and let us catch the one-something back. You get your bath and dress and I’ll go down and buy a paper. Don’t know but what I’ll have a bite more myself. My breakfast was a trifle sketchy. How long will you be?”
Myron continued to study the counterpane. Another silence ensued. Finally, though, it was broken by Myron. “Twenty minutes,” he said in a low voice.
It was dark when they stepped off the train at Warne. As they did so a form detached itself from the lamp-lit gloom of the platform and a voice asked cautiously: “That you, Andy?” Then Myron felt a hand tugging at his suit-case, and: “Let me have it, kiddo,” said Joe. “We’ll go over to Andy’s and leave it there until tomorrow. Better not take any risks.”
They skirted the end of the train, avoiding publicity as much as was possible, and made their way toward Mill Street. Only when they were a block from the track was the silence broken again. Then Andy asked: “Everything all right, Joe?”
“I think so. But I’m sure glad you didn’t leave it until the next train. I’d have had nervous prostration long before that! I had the dogs out three times and fed them. There wasn’t anything else to do. Maybe they’ve bust themselves eating, but it can’t be helped. That kid over in Williams—Wynant or something—has a grouch a mile long, Andy. You’ll have to kiss him, I guess, before he will ever smile again! How are you, kiddo?”