"I walked down the High with old Brent," O'Rane told me. "He was rather down on his luck—man who's lived on scholarships since he could walk, not a bob in the world, and no guts to make a career for himself. With a fellowship he can go to the Bar; otherwise he'll moulder in the Civil Service."
"But, my dear Raney," I exclaimed, "the decision doesn't rest with you."
"No, but—I can do something for him," he said with a smile. "You know my philosophy."
"Yes, but what about yourself?" I asked.
"In the words of Burgess, 'The Lord will provide.' I've made twenty-three pounds in ten days as a waiter in this country; in a Long Island Delicatessen store——"
"Are you going back there?"
"If need be. I've settled nothing—not even about this fellowship. I'm waiting for an omen, George. A lot depends on the next few hours; I must think things out. What are you pulling up for?"
"My near-side head light's gone out," I answered, as I scrambled past him into the road.
On my return O'Rane was standing with one foot braced against the steering-wheel and the other planted on the back of the driving-seat; he was gazing intently down the road we had just traversed. There was nothing coming up behind; he stood for a moment more in silence and then slipped back into his seat.
"It's too misty," he said, with the suggestion of a sigh in his voice.