“He’s seven now,” said Len slowly. “Do yuh ever see him?”
“Every little while, Len. They call him Larry Prentice. Yuh see, he wouldn’t remember yuh, Len.”
Len shook his head, but his eyes were soft now.
“I know it, Johnny. He was such a little feller when I went away. That was the hellish part of it—leavin’ the kid. Oh, I wasn’t fooled in my wife, Johnny. But that kid—he didn’t know better than to like me. He was my kid!” Len’s voice was savage. “I used to talk to myself about him at first—I mean until I got that last letter from Harmony—the one about Della marryin’ Charley. He wrote me one after that, about her dyin’.”
“You heard about Harmony Singer, didn’t yuh, Len?”
Len stared at Johnny for several moments.
“Heard about him? What do yuh mean?”
“O-oh,” breathed Johnny softly. “You didn’t hear about him gettin’ killed?”
“About him gettin’ killed? Harmony Singer?”
Johnny nodded sadly.