“You have a wonderfully keen sense of humor,” observed Joe Perkins dryly. Then the conversation began again, and the waitress brought Jack’s breakfast. He ate it silently, or as much of it as he could; the coffee scalded his throat, and the steak very nearly choked him. King, sitting near-by, spoke to him once, and he answered. But his voice wasn’t quite steady, and so the other wisely refrained from further attempts at conversation. One by one the fellows left the room, and as soon as he dared, Jack followed. He kept his head very high all the way back to his room; but in each cheek there was a bright disk of crimson and his eyes stared straight ahead. A tramp slouching along, with hands in pockets, moved aside to let him pass, but Jack never saw him.
When he had entered the front door, he moved very quietly, mounting the stairs as though contemplating burglary. Anthony’s door was ajar, and Jack tiptoed toward it and looked into the bare and shabby room. It was empty, and the fact seemed to relieve him. Crossing to his own room, he turned the key in the lock and began feverishly to pack his valise. The task did not take him long, and when it was completed, and the bag stood beside the door secured and strapped, he went to the desk and, seizing a sheet of paper, wrote hurriedly. When the composition was finished, he read it through.
“Dear Friend [it ran]: There’s no use trying any more. I thought I could stand it, but I just can’t. After what happened this morning, there’s only one thing for me to do, and I’m going to do it. I’m very sorry to go away from you, because you have been awfully kind to me, and you are the first one I ever knew who seemed like a chum. But I’m going home, and not coming back any more, because I can’t stand every one thinking I’m a coward, and Gilberth treating me like mud. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise to you, if it was really a promise, and please don’t think I haven’t tried, because I have tried very hard. Please don’t remember it against me. I’m very, very sorry. Maybe I will meet you again some time.
“Your sincere friend,
“John Weatherby.
“P. S. Please keep this charm to remember me by, if you don’t mind. You wear it on your watch-chain. Good-by. J. W.”
He placed the note and the watch-charm in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and crossed with it to Anthony’s room. When he returned a moment later, he held something concealed in his hand. He unstrapped his valise, and as he did so a noise in the hall outside caused him to glance nervously at the door. Quickly opening the bag he dropped the object he held into it, and again secured it. Going into the hall, he listened. All was still. Returning, he took up bag and overcoat and cautiously crept down the stairs and out of the house. Fearful of being seen, he turned to the left and made his way to the station by Murdoch Street and the railroad.