He was near a lamp-post. The path he had descended fell abruptly upon a wider walk that sloped down from it at a right angle, A rustic railing ran along it. Great clusters of rhododendron filled the sides. Opposite, on the wider walk, was a sheer rock, ensconced in shrubbery, crowned with a tree. Beside this, was the lamp. And here stood Quincy. A policeman, rounding his beat from above, caught sight of him. He also stopped.
He saw a boy, already tall, fixed and intent—but upon what, he could not discover. The boy stood as if charmed, his face full toward the lamp. The officer took in his long, dark face over which the tweed cap lay low. He felt the delicate, firm fibre of his body, disclosed through his tight sack suit. The boy’s arms were held straight at his sides. He was faintly swaying in his balance.
Curiosity is a duty if one happen to wear an official uniform. So the officer drew nearer. He saw now that the boy was slightly shivering and that his eyes were intent upon no thing other than the lamp itself! His face was brought out clearly in the sheet of light. The man gleaned the impression of a tender, nervous, high-wrought mood, such as Park-suicides were supposed to have. Clearly, here was a case to be investigated.
Marching up close, he spoke: “A bit chilly, young feller?”
Quincy looked sharply. In his eyes were irritation and alarm. Then, turning his back on the patrolman, he started down the hill.
“Hold on!” cried the Law.
Quincy stopped without turning back. This required of the policeman to catch up to him. Abreast, they faced each other.
“What you doin’ here?” he demanded. The boy’s demeanor had dispersed the sympathy which his good clothes aroused.
“What I’m doing?” Quincy got the question by repeating it. “I’m walking, of course.”
“Is that what you call standin’ in front of a lamp-post fer half an hour, starin’ like a madman?”