“Hello! Hello!” the voice took on an anxious note. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” wearily.
“Jo, there’s something the matter. You’re sick. I’m coming right over.”
“No!”
“Why not? You sound as if you’d been sleeping. Look here—”
“Leave me alone!” cried Jo, suddenly, and the receiver clacked onto the hook. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.” Long after the connection had been broken.
He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes. Then he turned and walked into the front room. All the light had gone out of it. Dusk had come on. All the light had gone out of everything. The zest had gone out of life. The game was over—the game he had been playing against loneliness and disappointment. And he was just a tired old man. A lonely, tired old man in a ridiculous, rose-colored room that had grown, all of a sudden, drab.
IV
OLE SKJARSEN’S FIRST TOUCHDOWN
By George Fitch
From “At Good Old Siwash,” copyright, 1911, by Little, Brown and Company. By special permission of the author.