Chapter 9

It was a clear, bright day when I went out, and the sun burned warm upon my eyes. Only a few flecks of snowy cloud hung high in the morning-blue sky, and already a woman was hanging wash on a roof. I felt better walking along. A feeling of confidence grew. Far down the island the skyscrapers rose tall and mysterious in the thin, pastel haze. A milk truck went past. I thought of the school. What were they doing now on the campus? Had the moon sunk low and the sun climbed clear? Had the breakfast bugle blown? Did the bellow of the big seed bull awaken the girls in the dorms this morning as on most spring mornings when I was there—sounding clear and full above bells and bugles and early workaday sounds? I hurried along, encouraged by the memories, and suddenly I was seized with a certainty that today was the day. Something would happen. I patted my brief case, thinking of the letter inside. The last had been first—a good sign.
Close to the curb ahead I saw a man pushing a cart piled high with rolls of blue paper and heard him singing in a clear ringing voice. It was a blues, and I walked along behind him remembering the times that I had heard such singing at home. It seemed that here some memories slipped around my life at the campus and went far back to things I had long ago shut out of my mind. There was no escaping such reminders.

"She's got feet like a monkey
Legs like a frog—Lawd, Lawd!
But when she starts to loving me
I holler Whoooo, God-dog!
Cause I loves my baabay,
Better than I do myself . . ."

And as I drew alongside I was startled to hear him call to me:
"Looka-year, buddy . . ."
"Yes," I said, pausing to look into his reddish eyes.
"Tell me just one thing this very fine morning—Hey! Wait a minute, daddy-o, I'm going your way!"
"What is it?" I said.
"What I want to know is," he said, "is you got the dog?"
"Dog? What dog?"
"Sho," he said, stopping his cart and resting it on its support. "That's it. Who —" he halted to crouch with one foot on the curb like a country preacher about to pound his Bible—"got . . . the . . . dog," his head snapping with each word like an angry rooster's.
I laughed nervously and stepped back. He watched me out of shrewd eyes. "Oh, goddog, daddy-o," he said with a sudden bluster, "who got the damn dog? Now I know you from down home, how come you trying to act like you never heard that before! Hell, ain't nobody out here this morning but us colored—Why you trying to deny me?"
Suddenly I was embarrassed and angry. "Deny you? What do you mean?"
"Just answer the question. Is you got him, or ain't you?"
"A dog?"
"Yeah, the dog."
I was exasperated. "No, not this morning," I said and saw a grin spread over his face.
"Wait a minute, daddy. Now don't go get mad. Damn, man! I thought sho you had him," he said, pretending to disbelieve me. I started away and he pushed the cart beside me. And suddenly I felt uncomfortable. Somehow he was like one of the vets from the Golden Day . . .
"Well, maybe it's the other way round," he said. "Maybe he got holt to you."
"Maybe," I said.
"If he is, you lucky it's just a dog—'cause, man, I tell you I believe it's a bear that's got holt to me."
"A bear?"
"Hell, yes! The bear. Caint you see these patches where he's been clawing at my behind?"
Pulling the seat of his Charlie Chaplin pants to the side, he broke into deep laughter.
"Man, this Harlem ain't nothing but a bear's den. But I tell you one thing," he said with swiftly sobering face, "it's the best place in the world for you and me, and if times don't get better soon I'm going to grab that bear and turn him every way but loose!"
"Don't let him get you down," I said.
"No, daddy-o, I'm going to start with one my own size!"
I tried to think of some saying about bears to reply, but remembered only Jack the Rabbit, Jack the Bear . . . who were both long forgotten and now brought a wave of homesickness. I wanted to leave him, and yet I found a certain comfort in walking along beside him, as though we'd walked this way before through other mornings, in other places . . .
"What is all that you have there?" I said, pointing to the rolls of blue paper stacked in the cart.
"Blueprints, man. Here I got 'bout a hundred pounds of blueprints and I couldn't build nothing!"
"What are they blueprints for?" I said.
"Damn if I know—everything. Cities, towns, country clubs. Some just buildings and houses. I got damn near enough to build me a house if I could live in a paper house like they do in Japan. I guess somebody done changed their plans," he added with a laugh. "I asked the man why they getting rid of all this stuff and he said they get in the way so every once in a while they have to throw 'em out to make place for the new plans. Plenty of these ain't never been used, you know."
"You have quite a lot," I said.
"Yeah, this ain't all neither. I got a coupla loads. There's a day's work right here in this stuff. Folks is always making plans and changing 'em."
"Yes, that's right," I said, thinking of my letters, "but that's a mistake. You have to stick to the plan."
He looked at me, suddenly grave. "You kinda young, daddy-o," he said.
I did not answer. We came to a corner at the top of a hill.
"Well, daddy-o, it's been good talking with a youngster from the old country but I got to leave you now. This here's one of them good ole downhill streets. I can coast a while and won't be worn out at the end of the day. Damn if I'm-a let 'em run me into my grave. I be seeing you again sometime—And you know something?"
"What's that?"
"I thought you was trying to deny me at first, but now I be pretty glad to see you . . ."
"I hope so," I said. "And you take it easy."
"Oh, I'll do that. All it takes to get along in this here man's town is a little shit, grit and mother-wit. And man, I was bawn with all three. In fact, I'maseventhsonofaseventhsonbawnwithacauloverbotheyesandraisedonblackcat-boneshighjohntheconquerorandgreasygreens —" he spieled with twinkling eyes, his lips working rapidly. "You dig me, daddy?"
"You're going too fast," I said, beginning to laugh.
"Okay, I'm slowing down. I'll verse you but I won't curse you—My name is Peter Wheatstraw, I'm the Devil's only son-in-law, so roll 'em! You a southern boy, ain't you?" he said, his head to one side like a bear's.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, git with it! My name's Blue and I'm coming at you with a pitchfork. Fe Fi Fo Fum. Who wants to shoot the Devil one, Lord God Stingeroy!"
He had me grinning despite myself. I liked his words though I didn't know the answer. I'd known the stuff from childhood, but had forgotten it; had learned it back of school . . .
"You digging me, daddy?" he laughed. "Haw, but look me up sometimes, I'm a piano player and a rounder, a whiskey drinker and a pavement pounder. I'll teach you some good bad habits. You'll need 'em. Good luck," he said.
"So long," I said and watched him going. I watched him push around the corner to the top of the hill leaning sharp against the cart handle, and heard his voice arise, muffled now, as he started down.

She's got feet like a monkeeee
Legs
Legs, Legs like a maaad
Bulldog . . .

What does it mean, I thought. I'd heard it all my life but suddenly the strangeness of it came through to me. Was it about a woman or about some strange sphinxlike animal? Certainly his woman, no woman, fitted that description. And why describe anyone in such contradictory words? Was it a sphinx? Did old Chaplin-pants, old dusty-butt, love her or hate her; or was he merely singing? What kind of woman could love a dirty fellow like that, anyway? And how could even he love her if she were as repulsive as the song described? I moved ahead. Perhaps everyone loved someone; I didn't know. I couldn't give much thought to love; in order to travel far you had to be detached, and I had the long road back to the campus before me. I strode along, hearing the cartman's song become a lonesome, broad-toned whistle now that flowered at the end of each phrase into a tremulous, blue-toned chord. And in its flutter and swoop I heard the sound of a railroad train highballing it, lonely across the lonely night. He was the Devil's son-in-law, all right, and he was a man who could whistle a three-toned chord . . . God damn, I thought, they're a hell of a people! And I didn't know whether it was pride or disgust that suddenly flashed over me.
At the corner I turned into a drugstore and took a seat at the counter. Several men were bent over plates of food. Glass globes of coffee simmered above blue flames. I could feel the odor of frying bacon reach deep into my stomach as I watched the counterman open the doors of the grill and turn the lean strips over and bang the doors shut again. Above, facing the counter, a blonde, sun-burned college girl smiled down, inviting all and sundry to drink a coke. The counterman came over.
"I've got something good for you," he said, placing a glass of water before me. "How about the special?"
"What's the special?"
"Pork chops, grits, one egg, hot biscuits and coffee!" He leaned over the counter with a look that seemed to say, There, that ought to excite you, boy. Could everyone see that I was southern?
"I'll have orange juice, toast and coffee," I said coldly.
He shook his head, "You fooled me," he said, slamming two pieces of bread into the toaster. "I would have sworn you were a pork chop man. Is that juice large or small?"
"Make it large," I said.
I looked silently at the back of his head as he sliced an orange, thinking, I should order the special and get up and walk out. Who does he think he is?
A seed floated in the thick layer of pulp that formed at the top of the glass. I fished it out with a spoon and then downed the acid drink, proud to have resisted the pork chops and grits. It was an act of discipline, a sign of the change that was coming over me and which would return me to college a more experienced man. I would be basically the same, I thought, stirring my coffee, yet so subtly changed as to intrigue those who had never been North. It always helped at the college to be a little different, especially if you wished to play a leading role. It made the folks talk about you, try to figure you out. I had to be careful though, not to speak too much like a northern Negro; they wouldn't like that. The thing to do, I thought with a smile, was to give them hints that whatever you did or said was weighted with broad and mysterious meanings that lay just beneath the surface. They'd love that. And the vaguer you told things, the better. You had to keep them guessing—just as they guessed about Dr. Bledsoe: Did Dr. Bledsoe stop at an expensive white hotel when he visited New York? Did he go on parties with the trustees? And how did he act?
"Man, I bet he has him a fine time. They tell me when Ole Doc gets to New York he don't stop for the red lights. Say he drinks his good red whiskey and smokes his good black cigars and forgets all about you ole know-nothing-Negroes down here on the campus. Say when he gets up North he makes everybody call him Mister Doctor Bledsoe."
I smiled as the conversation came back to my mind. I felt good. Perhaps it was all to the best that I had been sent away. I had learned more. Heretofore all the campus gossip had seemed merely malicious and disrespectful; now I could see the advantage for Dr. Bledsoe. Whether we liked him or not, he was never out of our minds. That was a secret of leadership. Strange I should think of it now, for although I'd never given it any thought before, I seemed to have known it all along. Only here the distance from the campus seemed to make it clear and hard, and I thought it without fear. Here it came to hand just as easily as the coin which I now placed on the counter for my breakfast. It was fifteen cents and as I felt for a nickel I took out another dime, thinking, Is it an insult when one of us tips one of them?
I looked for the counterman, seeing him serving a plate of pork chops and grits to a man with a pale blond mustache, and stared; then I slapped the dime on the counter and left, annoyed that the dime did not ring as loud as a fifty-cent piece.


WHEN I reached the door of Mr. Emerson's office it occurred to me that perhaps I should have waited until the business of the day was under way, but I disregarded the idea and went ahead. My being early would be, I hoped, an indication of both how badly I wanted work, and how promptly I would perform any assignment given me. Besides, wasn't there a saying that the first person of the day to enter a business would get a bargain? Or was that said only of Jewish business? I removed the letter from my brief case. Was Emerson a Christian or a Jewish name?
Beyond the door it was like a museum. I had entered a large reception room decorated with cool tropical colors. One wall was almost covered by a huge colored map, from which narrow red silk ribbons stretched tautly from each division of the map to a series of ebony pedestals, upon which sat glass specimen jars containing natural products of the various countries. It was an importing firm. I looked around the room, amazed. There were paintings, bronzes, tapestries, all beautifully arranged. I was dazzled and so taken aback that I almost dropped my brief case when I heard a voice say, "And what would your business be?"
I saw the figure out of a collar ad: ruddy face with blond hair faultlessly in place, a tropical weave suit draped handsomely from his broad shoulders, his eyes gray and nervous behind clear-framed glasses.
I explained my appointment. "Oh, yes," he said. "May I see the letter, please?"
I handed it over, noticing the gold links in the soft white cuffs as he extended his hand. Glancing at the envelope he looked back at me with a strange interest in his eyes and said, "Have a seat, please. I'll be with you in a moment."
I watched him leave noiselessly, moving with a long hip-swinging stride that caused me to frown. I went over and took a teakwood chair with cushions of emerald-green silk, sitting stiffly with my brief case across my knees. He must have been sitting there when I came in, for on a table that held a beautiful dwarf tree I saw smoke rising from a cigarette in a jade ash tray. An open book, something called Totem and Taboo, lay beside it. I looked across to a lighted case of Chinese design which held delicate-looking statues of horses and birds, small vases and bowls, each set upon a carved wooden base. The room was quiet as a tomb—until suddenly there was a savage beating of wings and I looked toward the window to see an eruption of color, as though a gale had whipped up a bundle of brightly colored rags. It was an aviary of tropical birds set near one of the broad windows, through which, as the clapping of wings settled down, I could see two ships plying far out upon the greenish bay below. A large bird began a song, drawing my eyes to the throbbing of its bright blue, red and yellow throat. It was startling and I watched the surge and flutter of the birds as their colors flared for an instant like an unfurled oriental fan. I wanted to go and stand near the cage for a better view, but decided against it. It might seem unbusinesslike. I observed the room from the chair.
These folks are the Kings of the Earth! I thought, hearing the bird make an ugly noise. There was nothing like this at the college museum—or anywhere else that I had ever been. I recalled only a few cracked relics from slavery times: an iron pot, an ancient bell, a set of ankle-irons and links of chain, a primitive loom, a spinning wheel, a gourd for drinking, an ugly ebony African god that seemed to sneer (presented to the school by some traveling millionaire), a leather whip with copper brads, a branding iron with the double letter MM. Though I had seen them very seldom, they were vivid in my mind. They had not been pleasant and whenever I had visited the room I avoided the glass case in which they rested, preferring instead to look at photographs of the early days after the Civil War, the times close to those blind Barbee had described. And I had not looked even at these too often.
I tried to relax; the chair was beautiful but hard. Where had the man gone? Had he shown any antagonism when he saw me? I was annoyed that I had failed to see him first. One had to watch such details. Suddenly there came a harsh cry from the cage, and once more I saw a mad flashing as though the birds had burst into spontaneous flame, fluttering and beating their wings maliciously against the bamboo bars, only to settle down just as suddenly when the door opened and the blond man stood beckoning, his hand upon the knob. I went over, tense inside me. Had I been accepted or rejected?
There was a question in his eyes. "Come in, please," he said.
"Thank you," I said, waiting to follow him.
"Please," he said with a slight smile.
I moved ahead of him, sounding the tone of his words for a sign.
"I want to ask you a few questions," he said, waving my letter at two chairs.
"Yes, sir?" I said.
"Tell me, what is it that you're trying to accomplish?" he said.
"I want a job, sir, so that I can earn enough money to return to college in the fall."
"To your old school?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see." For a moment he studied me silently. "When do you expect to graduate?"
"Next year, sir. I've completed my junior classes . . ."
"Oh, you have? That's very good. And how old are you?"
"Almost twenty, sir."
"A junior at nineteen? You are a good student."
"Thank you, sir," I said, beginning to enjoy the interview.
"Were you an athlete?" he asked.
"No, sir . . ."
"You have the build," he said, looking me up and down. "You'd probably make an excellent runner, a sprinter."
"I've never tried, sir."
"And I suppose it's silly even to ask what you think of your Alma Mater?" he said.
"I think it's one of the best in the world," I said, hearing my voice surge with deep feeling.
"I know, I know," he said, with a swift displeasure that surprised me.
I became alert again as he mumbled something incomprehensible about "nostalgia for Harvard yard."
"But what if you were offered an opportunity to finish your work at some other college," he said, his eyes widening behind his glasses. His smile had returned.
"Another college?" I asked, my mind beginning to whirl.
"Why, yes, say some school in New England . . ."
I looked at him speechlessly. Did he mean Harvard? Was this good or bad. Where was it leading? "I don't know, sir," I said cautiously. "I've never thought about it. I've only a year more, and, well, I know everyone at my old school and they know me . . ."
I came to a confused halt, seeing him look at me with a sigh of resignation. What was on his mind? Perhaps I had been too frank about returning to the college, maybe he was against our having a higher education . . . But hell, he's only a secretary . . . Or is he?
"I understand," he said calmly. "It was presumptuous of me to even suggest another school. I guess one's college is really a kind of mother and father . . . a sacred matter."
"Yes, sir. That's it," I said in hurried agreement.
His eyes narrowed. "But now I must ask you an embarrassing question. Do you mind?"
"Why, no, sir," I said nervously.
"I don't like to ask this, but it's quite necessary . . ." He leaned forward with a pained frown. "Tell me, did you read the letter which you brought to Mr. Emerson? This," he said, taking the letter from the table.
"Why, no, sir! It wasn't addressed to me, so naturally I wouldn't think of opening it . . ."
"Of course not, I know you wouldn't," he said, fluttering his hand and sitting erect. "I'm sorry and you must dismiss it, like one of those annoying personal questions you find so often nowadays on supposedly impersonal forms."
I didn't believe him. "But was it opened, sir? Someone might have gone into my things . . ."
"Oh, no, nothing like that. Please forget the question . . . And tell me, please, what are your plans after graduation?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I'd like to be asked to remain at the college as a teacher, or as a member of the administrative staff. And . . . Well . . ."
"Yes? And what else?"
"Well—er, I guess I'd really like to become Dr. Bledsoe's assistant . . ."
"Oh, I see," he said, sitting back and forming his mouth into a thin-lipped circle. "You're very ambitious."
"I guess I am, sir. But I'm willing to work hard."
"Ambition is a wonderful force," he said, "but sometimes it can be blinding . . . On the other hand, it can make you successful—like my father . . ." A new edge came into his voice and he frowned and looked down at his hands, which were trembling. "The only trouble with ambition is that it sometimes blinds one to realities . . . Tell me, how many of these letters do you have?"
"I had about seven, sir," I replied, confused by his new turn. "They're—"
"Seven!" He was suddenly angry.
"Yes, sir, that was all he gave me . . ."
"And how many of these gentlemen have you succeeded in seeing, may I ask?"
A sinking feeling came over me. "I haven't seen any of them personally, sir."
"And this is your last letter?"
"Yes, sir, it is, but I expect to hear from the others . . . They said —"
"Of course you will, and from all seven. They're all loyal Americans."
There was unmistakable irony in his voice now, and I didn't know what to say.
"Seven," he repeated mysteriously. "Oh, don't let me upset you," he said with an elegant gesture of self-disgust. "I had a difficult session with my analyst last evening and the slightest thing is apt to set me off. Like an alarm clock without control—Say!" he said, slapping his palm against his thighs. "What on earth does that mean?" Suddenly he was in a state. One side of his face had begun to twitch and swell.
I watched him light a cigarette, thinking, What on earth is this all about?
"Some things are just too unjust for words," he said, expelling a plume of smoke, "and too ambiguous for either speech or ideas. By the way, have you ever been to the Club Calamus?"
"I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir," I said.
"You haven't? It's very well known. Many of my Harlem friends go there. It's a rendezvous for writers, artists and all kinds of celebrities. There's nothing like it in the city, and by some strange twist it has a truly continental flavor."
"I've never been to a night club, sir. I'll have to go there to see what it's like after I've started earning some money," I said, hoping to bring the conversation back to the problem of jobs.
He looked at me with a jerk of his head, his face beginning to twitch again.
"I suppose I've been evading the issue again—as always. Look," he burst out impulsively. "Do you believe that two people, two strangers who have never seen one another before can speak with utter frankness and sincerity?"
"Sir?"
"Oh, damn! What I mean is, do you believe it possible for us, the two of us, to throw off the mask of custom and manners that insulate man from man, and converse in naked honesty and frankness?"
"I don't know what you mean exactly, sir." I said.
"Are you sure?"
"I . . ."
"Of course, of course. If I could only speak plainly! I'm confusing you. Such frankness just isn't possible because all our motives are impure. Forget what I just said. I'll try to put it this way—and remember this, please . . ."
My head spun. He was addressing me, leaning forward confidentially, as though he'd known me for years, and I remembered something my grandfather had said long ago: Don't let no white man tell you his business, 'cause after he tells you he's liable to git shame he tole it to you and then he'll hate you. Fact is, he was hating you all the time. . .
". . . I want to try to reveal a part of reality that is most important to you—but I warn you, it's going to hurt. No, let me finish," he said, touching my knee lightly and quickly removing his hand as I shifted my position.
"What I want to do is done very seldom, and, to be honest, it wouldn't happen now if I hadn't sustained a series of impossible frustrations. You see—well, I'm thwarted . . . Oh, damn, there I go again, thinking only of myself . . . We're both frustrated, understand? Both of us, and I want to help you . . ."
"You mean you'll let me see Mr. Emerson?"
He frowned. "Please don't seem so happy about it, and don't leap to conclusions. I want to help, but there is a tyranny involved . . ."
"A tyranny?" My lungs tightened.
"Yes. That's a way of putting it. Because to help you I must disillusion you . . ."
"Oh, I don't think I mind, sir. Once I see Mr. Emerson, it'll be up to me. All I want to do is speak to him."
"Speak to him," he said, getting quickly to his feet and mashing his cigarette into the tray with shaking fingers. "No one speaks to him. He does the speaking —" Suddenly he broke off. "On second thought, perhaps you'd better leave me your address and I'll mail you Mr. Emerson's reply in the morning. He's really a very busy man."
His whole manner had changed.
"But you said . . ." I stood up, completely confused. Was he having fun with me? "Couldn't you let me talk to him for just five minutes?" I pleaded. "I'm sure I can convince him that I'm worthy of a job. And if there's someone who has tampered with my letter, I'll prove my identity . . . Dr. Bledsoe would —"
"Identity! My God! Who has any identity any more anyway? It isn't so perfectly simple. Look," he said with an anguished gesture. "Will you trust me?"
"Why, yes, sir, I trust you."
He leaned forward. "Look," he said, his face working violently, "I was trying to tell you that I know many things about you—not you personally, but fellows like you. Not much, either, but still more than the average. With us it's still Jim and Huck Finn. A number of my friends are jazz musicians, and I've been around. I know the conditions under which you live—Why go back, fellow? There is so much you could do here where there is more freedom. You won't find what you're looking for when you return anyway; because so much is involved that you can't possibly know. Please don't misunderstand me; I don't say all this to impress you. Or to give myself some kind of sadistic catharsis. Truly, I don't. But I do know this world you're trying to contact—all its virtues and all its unspeakables—Ha, yes, unspeakables. I'm afraid my father considers me one of the unspeakables . . . I'm Huckleberry, you see . . ."
He laughed drily as I tried to make sense of his ramblings. Huckleberry? Why did he keep talking about that kid's story? I was puzzled and annoyed that he could talk to me this way because he stood between me and a job, the campus . . .
"But I only want a job, sir," I said. "I only want to make enough money to return to my studies."
"Of course, but surely you suspect there is more to it than that. Aren't you curious about what lies behind the face of things?"
"Yes, sir, but I'm mainly interested in a job."
"Of course," he said, "but life isn't that simple . . ."
"But I'm not bothered about all the other things, whatever they are, sir. They're not for me to interfere with and I'll be satisfied to go back to college and remain there as long as they'll allow me to."
"But I want to help you do what is best," he said. "What's best, mind you. Do you wish to do what's best for yourself?"
"Why, yes, sir. I suppose I do . . ."
"Then forget about returning to the college. Go somewhere else . . ."
"You mean leave?"
"Yes, forget it . . ."
"But you said that you would help me!"
"I did and I am —"
"But what about seeing Mr. Emerson?"
"Oh, God! Don't you see that it's best that you do not see him?"
Suddenly I could not breathe. Then I was standing, gripping my brief case. "What have you got against me?" I blurted. "What did I ever do to you? You never intended to let me see him. Even though I presented my letter of introduction. Why? Why? I'd never endanger your job —"
"No, no, no! Of course not," he cried, getting to his feet. "You've misunderstood me. You mustn't do that! God, there's too much misunderstanding. Please don't think I'm trying to prevent you from seeing my—from seeing Mr. Emerson out of prejudice . . ."
"Yes, sir, I do," I said angrily. "I was sent here by a friend of his. You read the letter, but still you refuse to let me see him, and now you're trying to get me to leave college. What kind of man are you, anyway? What have you got against me? You, a northern white man!"
He looked pained. "I've done it badly," he said, "but you must believe that I am trying to advise you what is best for you." He snatched off his glasses.
"But I know what's best for me," I said. "Or at least Dr. Bledsoe does, and if I can't see Mr. Emerson today, just tell me when I can and I'll be here . . ."
He bit his lips and shut his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as though fighting back a scream. "I'm sorry, really sorry that I started all of this," he said, suddenly calm. "It was foolish of me to try to advise you, but please, you mustn't believe that I'm against you . . . or your race. I'm your friend. Some of the finest people I know are Neg—Well, you see, Mr. Emerson is my father."
"Your father!"
"My father, yes, though I would have preferred it otherwise. But he is, and I could arrange for you to see him. But to be utterly frank, I'm incapable of such cynicism. It would do you no good."
"But I'd like to take my chances, Mr. Emerson, sir . . . This is very important to me. My whole career depends upon it."
"But you have no chance," he said.
"But Dr. Bledsoe sent me here," I said, growing more excited. "I must have a chance . . ."
"Dr. Bledsoe," he said with distaste. "He's like my . . . he ought to be horsewhipped! Here," he said, sweeping up the letter and thrusting it crackling toward me. I took it, looking into his eyes that burned back at me.
"Go on, read it," he cried excitedly. "Go on!"
"But I wasn't asking for this," I said.
"Read it!"

My dear Mr. Emerson:

The bearer of this letter is a former student of ours (I say former because he shall never, under any circumstances, be enrolled as a student here again) who has been expelled for a most serious defection from our strictest rules of deportment.
Due, however, to circumstances the nature of which I shall explain to you in person on the occasion of the next meeting of the board, it is to the best interests of the college that this young man have no knowledge of the finality of his expulsion. For it is indeed his hope to return here to his classes in the fall. However, it is to the best interests of the great work which we are dedicated to perform, that he continue undisturbed in these vain hopes while remaining as far as possible from our midst.
This case represents, my dear Mr. Emerson, one of the rare, delicate instances in which one for whom we held great expectations has gone grievously astray, and who in his fall threatens to upset certain delicate relationships between certain interested individuals and the school. Thus, while the bearer is no longer a member of our scholastic family, it is highly important that his severance with the college be executed as painlessly as possible. I beg of you, sir, to help him continue in the direction of that promise which, like the horizon, recedes ever brightly and distantly beyond the hopeful traveler.
Respectfully, I am your humble servant,
A. Herbert Bledsoe

I raised my head. Twenty-five years seemed to have lapsed between his handing me the letter and my grasping its message. I could not believe it, tried to read it again. I could not believe it, yet I had a feeling that it all had happened before. I rubbed my eyes, and they felt sandy as though all the fluids had suddenly dried.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm terribly sorry."
"What did I do? I always tried to do the right thing
"That you must tell me," he said. "To what does he refer?"
"I don't know, I don't know . . ."
"But you must have done something."
"I took a man for a drive, showed him into the Golden Day to help him when he became ill ... I don't know
I told him falteringly of the visit to Trueblood's and the trip to the Golden Day and of my expulsion, watching his mobile face reflecting his reaction to each detail.
"It's little enough," he said when I had finished. "I don't understand the man. He is very complicated."
"I only wanted to return and help," I said.
"You'll never return. You can't return now," he said. "Don't you see? I'm terribly sorry and yet I'm glad that I gave in to the impulse to speak to you. Forget it; though that's advice which I've been unable to accept myself, it's still good advice. There is no point in blinding yourself to the truth. Don't blind yourself . . ."
I got up, dazed, and started toward the door. He came behind me into the reception room where the birds flamed in the cage, their squawks like screams in a nightmare.
He stammered guiltily, "Please, I must ask you never to mention this conversation to anyone."
"No," I said.
"I wouldn't mind, but my father would consider my revelation the most extreme treason . . . You're free of him now. I'm still his prisoner. You have been freed, don't you understand? I've still my battle." He seemed near tears.
"I won't," I said. "No one would believe me. I can't myself. There must be some mistake. There must be . . ."
I opened the door.
"Look, fellow," he said. "This evening I'm having a party at the Calamus. Would you like to join my guests? It might help you —"
"No, thank you, sir. I'll be all right."
"Perhaps you'd like to be my valet?"