“So you had a talk with DeLancey?” says Bob on the way back. “I suppose he—er—sent no message?”
It had taken Bob Cathaway all this while to work up to that question, and he can’t steady down his voice as he puts it. And that quaver tells me the whole story of how he’s been hoping all along that Brother DeLancey would sometime or other get over his grouch. Which puts it up to me to tell him what a human iceberg he’s related to. Did I? Honest, there’s times when I ain’t got much use for the truth.
“Message?” says I, prompt and cheerful. “Now what in blazes was it he did say to tell you? Something about asking how long before you and Mrs. Cathaway was goin’ to run up and make him a visit, I guess.”
“A visit!” gasps Bob. “Did—did DeLancey say that? Then thank Heaven it’s over! Come on! Hurry!” and he grabs me by the arm, tows me to the hotel, and makes a dash up the stairs towards their room.
“What do you think, Babe?” says he, pantin’. “DeLancey wants to know when we’re coming back!”
For a minute Mrs. Bob don’t say a word, but just stands there, her hands gripped in Bob’s, and the dew startin’ out of her eye corners. Then she asks, sort of husky, “Isn’t there a night train, Bob?”
There wa’n’t; but there was one at six-thirty-eight in the mornin’. We all caught it, too, both of ’em as chipper as a pair of kids, and me wonderin’ how it was all goin’ to turn out.
For three days after that I never went to the ’phone without expectin’ to hear from Bob Cathaway, expressin’ his opinion about my qualifications for the Ananias class. And then here the other afternoon I runs into Brother DeLancey on the avenue, not seein’ him quick enough to beat it up a side street.
“Ah, McCabe,” he sings out, “just a moment! That little affair about my Brother Robert, you know.”
“Sure, I know,” says I, bracin’ myself. “Where is he now?”