Mr. Corinth looked at his watch—a monstrous contraption that stuffed his pocket like a goose egg. “I’ll have one of my truck drivers run you up to your house for the diaries. By the time you get back your lab ought to be habitable again.”
CHAPTER VIII
JIMMIE RODE to his home in the front seat of a pick-up truck, with a driver who chewed a toothpick and talked with enthusiasm and detail about State’s chances in the Conference. It was a long time—an age, an era—back to the days when Jimmie had thought about football. He did not know the names of the State players any more; he did not understand the rules by which the game was now played. But he made the seedy youth’s eyes bug out by saying, “I’ll have to see some games. I played for State once.
Won my letter. At end. My brother too. Biff Bailey.”
The man said, “My Lord, you aren’t Biff Bailey’s brother!” Jimmie laughed and pointed out the house. The truck stopped and he loped up the walk. Westcott was sweeping the porch. The front door yawned. So Jimmie went through it, in long, silent bounds, and up the stairs to his room. He threw the door open.
Sarah was lying on his bed, reading. Reading a gilt-edged, leather-bound book.
There were two piles of such books—equal-sized piles—on the counterpane beside her.
The bolster propped her head. She had kicked off her pumps. Her feet were lifted in the air and twisting. Her cheeks had a high, red sheen and her eyes glittered. She did not even look up when the door opened. She said, tensely, “Come in, Mother. I’ve found something priceless! ”
Jimmie felt his face blanch, as if his blood were heavy and the weight of it had dropped down into his belly and turned into iron.
“Come in! It’s—!” Sarah looked.