Now I ask you to excuse
me, for I am weary." He stood for a moment, and I saw that, although
he had never raised his voice nor made a violent gesture, his eyes
were dark and hollow with fatigue, and drops of sweat stood upon his
forehead.
He turned and left the platform, and Old Joe and I hurried around to
join him. We found him with Korwsky the little Russian tailor whose
son he had healed. Korwsky claimed him to spend the night at his
home; the friend with the delivery wagon was on hand, and they were
ready to start. I asked Carpenter to what church he was going in the
morning, and he startled me by the reply, "St. Bartholomew's." I
promised that I would surely be on hand, and then Old Joe and I set
out to walk home.
"Well?" said I. "What do you think of him?"
The ex-centre-rush walked for a bit before he answered. "You know,
Billy boy," said he, "we do lead rotten useless lives."
"Good Lord!" I thought; it was the first sign of a soul I had ever
noted in Old Joe! "Why," I argued, "you sell paper, and that's
useful, isn't it?"
"I don't know whether it is or not.
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