Hy tossed his hat on the couch-bed of the absent Peter, then came and stood by the open window, thrust hands deep into trousers packets, sniffed the mild evening air, gazed benevolently on the trees, lights and little moving figures of the Square. Then he lit a cigarette.
“Great night, my son!” said he.
The Worm lowered his pipe, looked up with sudden sharp interest, studied the gay young person standing so buoyantly there before him; then replaced the pipe and smoked on in silence.
“Oh, come!” cried Hy, after a bit. “Buck up! Be a live young newspaper man!”
“I'm not a newspaper man,'” replied the Worm.
“You're not a—-you were this afternoon.”
“True.”
“Say, my son, what were you around for today?”
The pipe came down again. “You mean to say you don't know?”
“Not a thing. Except that the place went absolutely on the fritz. I thought I had 'em.”