“You leave him tonight. Understand?”
Bruce sulked for the rest of the day and avoided Hunch. After supper Hunch went to McGuire's room in the square frame hotel by the tracks. No one was there, but Bruce's patent-leather valise lay in the corner. Hunch waited until they came in.
“Hello,” said Bruce, a little startled.
“Pack up your stuff and come along with me, Bruce.”
“Bruce is rooming with me,” said McGuire, looking at Hunch out of the corners of his eyes.
“No, he ain't,” said Hunch, “he's rooming with me. Step lively, Bruce. I been waiting half an hour.”
Bruce and McGuire looked at each other, and Hunch sat grimly on the bed. Then Bruce turned to the bureau and began nervously gathering his things and throwing them into the valise. McGuire helped him without a word. Then Bruce shook hands with McGuire, a little stiffly, and went away with Hunch.
Now, that he was directly under Hunch's eye, Bruce improved slightly. He fell into the habit of confiding in Hunch, and relying, as in the old days, upon his advice. But one day a letter came for Bruce, addressed in a hand which Hunch recognized. Bruce was quiet and serious for hours, and when Hunch asked him what was the matter, he tried to pass it over with a laugh. It was not until after supper, when they were up in the room together, that Bruce gave way. Hunch was shaving, and Bruce sat watching him for some time, before he said: “Hunch, I—got a letter from Marne.” Hunch could see him in the mirror leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees.
“She—she's coming down kind of hard on me. I ain't had a chance to earn anything yet. It's all I can do to take care of myself.”
“Ain't you sent her anything?”