He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range of vision.
'Things going well over at the Voice office?' Henry was silent. He couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special up?'
'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.'
'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a little walk, perhaps.'
'Why—yes.'
'Mind if I walk along with you?'
'Why—no.'
They fell into step.
'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write the Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I thought.'
'It was terrible!'