There was but one face in the world—the face of the boy who had so startled Jerry Cardinegh in Routledge’s rooms their last night together—that could have brought to the old man as now the falsity of his position, the shame of his silence, and the horrid closing of his life. Routledge himself could not have done this, for he would have returned with a smile and a grip of the hand. Cardinegh had received in full voltage the galvanism Routledge had craved as a boon. He tried to speak, but the sound in his throat was like dice shaking in a leather box. He tried again unavailingly, and sank into a chair. Noreen brought the whiskey.
“Why, father, it was just a little boy whom Routledge-san knew,” she soothed. “I found him on the street to-day, and asked him to come to see us to-night—because he had known Routledge-san.”
For an hour he sat quietly, and neither spoke.
The bell rang. Noreen steeled herself to meet a party of correspondents who had promised to drop in upon Jerry that night. The old king was not forgotten by the princes of the craft, and his daughter was unforgettable.
“Are you well enough to see the boys, father?”
In the past hour the old man had felt the fear of his daughter’s presence, a deadly fear of questions. A sort of hopeless idea came to him—that men in the room would be a defense—until he was himself again.
“Of course. Bring them in.... The little chap—— ... I was gripped of a sudden.... It’s an old dog at best, I am, deere!”
Finacune, as handsome as a young rose-vine in his evening wear; the heavy, panting Trollope, who put on weight prodigiously between wars; Feeney, with his look of gloom, as if a doom-song were forever chanting in his brain; and young Benton Day, of slight but very promising service, the man who was to take Routledge’s place on the Review in the event of war—these filled the Cheer Street sitting-room with brisk affairs. Noreen’s heart was in the dark with the little boy fleeing back to Bookstalls through the noisy October night. Old Jerry was shaken up and embraced. There was to be a full gathering of war-scribes at Tetley’s later, to discuss the Russian reply to certain Japanese proposals received by cable in the afternoon. The dean was invited to preside. Noreen saw the pained look in the eyes of Finacune as he relaxed her father’s hand.
“I’ll not go,” said Jerry. “I drink enough at home, sure. Did you say Russia has been talking back—though it’s little interest I have in rumors of war? It’s a boy’s work.”
“The Czar says Japan may run Korea, but as for Manchuria it is, ‘Hands off, Brownie.’” said Finacune.