“He was what you call a sport, too, in a way, and how he ever took up with me I never could understand. I hadn’t any money—I had to work like the dickens to get along. All my people are dead, and I was then, as I am now, practically alone in the world. But this fellow, who came of a good family, took me up, and we formed a real friendship.
“I think I did him good in a way, and I know he did me, for I used to have bitter feelings against the rich and he did a lot to show me that I was wrong. This friend went in a fast set and one day I spoke to him about it. I said he was throwing away his talents.
“Well, he was touchy—he’d been out late the night before—and he resented what I said. We had a quarrel—our first one—and he went out saying he never wanted to see me again. I had a chance to make up with him later, but I was too proud. So was he, I guess. Anyhow, when I put my pride in my pocket and went after him, a little later, it was too late.”
“Too late—how?” asked Andy, for Ikey had come to a stop and there was a break in his voice.
“He went out in an auto with his fast crowd; there was an upset, and my friend was killed.”
Andy turned sharply. There were tears in the other’s eyes, and his face was twitching.
“I—I always felt,” said Ikey, softly, “that perhaps if I hadn’t been so proud and hard that—maybe—maybe he’d be alive to-day.”
There was silence in the room, broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock.
“Thanks,” said Andy, softly, after a pause. “I—I guess I understand what you mean, Stein.” He held out his hand, which was warmly clasped.
“Then you will go for a walk—maybe?” asked Ikey, eagerly.