After supper, a meal somewhat marred by many jocular allusions to his nose, Russell hurried to West street, avoiding as much as possible the lighted stretches. Not for several weeks had he been to the store in the evening, and when, expecting to find the premises dark, he saw a dim light burning within, his first feeling was of uneasiness. Nor was his uneasiness lessened when he found the door locked. But once inside he saw that there was no occasion for alarm. Behind the iron grilling of the desk sat Mr. Pulsifer, his startled countenance dimly illumined by the single light.
“Hello,” greeted Russell cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to find you here, sir, and thought of burglars or something when I saw the light.”
“I—I sometimes come here at night,” answered the florist hesitantly. “I was—er—looking over my books.”
Russell went back of the counter and found the catalogue he had come for, all the time aware that Mr. Pulsifer was following him with a perturbed gaze. Evidently, thought Russell, he was not wanted there, although it was hard to believe that Mr. Pulsifer’s occupation was so important as to cause him to resent intrusion. “If,” continued Russell to himself, “it was me, I’d be mighty glad to have some one come in to speak to! The old chap looks sort of down on his luck to-night.”
When he had said good night and gone out, locking the door behind him, his thoughts continued with Mr. Pulsifer. “Queer old codger, anyway,” he reflected. As a matter of fact, the florist was not really old, but he did give the impression of being so. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he went flooey some day and we had to either move or take the whole store. He can’t be making any sort of a living. Wonder if he has a family to support. Hope not. They must be starving, for all the money his business brings in. Well, I don’t wish him any hard luck, but I’d just as lief have a change of landlord. He sort of gives me the creeps!”
When he got back to the room Stick was gone, but Jimmy was awaiting him. “Thought I’d drop around and ask after the jolly old proboscis,” said Jimmy. “How’s it feeling?”
“If,” replied Russell with dignity, “you are referring to my nose, it is feeling punk. How does it look?” He forgot his dignity and was frankly anxious. Jimmy viewed it from various angles, his head on one side. Finally:
“Strange and—ah—quaint,” he answered. “It—it’s sort of spread, isn’t it?”
“Feels as if it was all over my face,” replied Russell, laughing. “Well, Jake says it will return to its usual graceful outlines in a day or two.”
“Possibly,” murmured Jimmy, “possibly, but I can’t conceive it. What have you got there?” he added, nodding at the catalogue.