'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.'
'At that, it may be jealousy.'
'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't do what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?'
'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.'
'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there to call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was out. And that's all. I've thought I—I've felt... Hump, do you believe in love—you know—at first sight?'
Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered.
'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that—with me.'
2
The first of Henry's meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk of the village, that one called The Caliph of Simpson Street, had appeared in the Gleaner of the preceding Saturday. It had made a distinct stir.
The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. In the order of writing, and in Henry's plans, it should have been The Cauliflowers of the Caliph. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of putting Sinbad the Treasurer in its place. He had all but the last one or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties; and he didn't consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder this way. The Cauliflowers was quietly humorous; while Sinbad the Treasurer had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the foreman, Jimmy Albers. The word 'punch' was fresh slang then. McGibbon himself introduced it into Sunbury.