“Not yet; but he doesn’t write badly.”
“Ah! there are so many who don’t write badly, but who never go beyond that.”
Orrington laughed, shaking even his heavy chair with his heavier mirth. “Excuse me,” he murmured. “You’re very severe on us, Reynolds. You mustn’t forget that most of us aren’t Shakespeares. Indeed, to be strictly impersonal, I don’t know any member of this club—and we’re rather long on eminent pen-pushers—who is. It won’t do any harm to give my young friend his chance. To tell the truth, I think it’s a damned sight better for him than the end of a pier and the morgue.”
I wondered how the mighty Reynolds would take the snub, and I feared a scene. But I knew him less well than Orrington. He merely nursed his glass in silence and looked sulky. After all, Orrington’s argument was unanswerable.
To break the tension, I turned to Orrington with a question. “What happened twenty years ago?” I asked. “You said you were reminded of it.”
Orrington was silent for a minute as if deliberating. He seemed to be reviewing whatever it was he had in mind. “Yes, yes,” he said at last, “that’s more of a story, only it hasn’t any conclusion. It’s as devoid of a dénouement as the life-history of the youth whom Reynolds wishes to starve for his soul’s good.”
“You are very unjust to me,” Reynolds protested. “You speak as if I had a grudge against the young man, whereas I was merely making a general observation. It is no real kindness to encourage a youth to his ultimate hurt.”
Orrington looked at him doubtfully. “I suppose not,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve often wondered what happened in this other case I have in mind.”
“What was it?” asked Reynolds.
“It was a small matter,” Orrington began apologetically; “at least I suppose it would seem so to any outsider. But it was a big thing to me and presumably to the other fellow involved. I never knew anything about him, directly.”