red tie, red silk hosiery visible above the glistening
low-cut tan shoes, a Panama hat with a fluffy striped band around it. In
his hand was a thin bamboo stick which he was swinging savagely against
his legs. His face worked with anger.

He pounced upon the Worm.

“Wanted to see you,” he said in a voice that was low but of quavering
intensity. “Before I go. Got to run.”

At this point the elevator came creaking down. A messenger boy stepped
out, carrying Hy's suit-case and light overcoat.

“Excuse me,” breathed Hy, “one minute.” He whispered to the boy, pressed
a folded dollar bill into his hand, hurried him off. “This thing has
become flatly impossible--”

“What thing?” The Worm was moodily surveying him.

“Pete. He's up there now. I'm through. I shan't go into those rooms
again if he--look here! I've found a place for you and me, over in the
Mews. Eight dollars less than this and more light. Tell Pete. I. can't
talk to him. My God, the man's a--”

“He's a what?” asked the Worm.

“Well, you know what he _did!_ As there's a God in the Heavens he killed
old Wilde.”

“Killed your aunt!” observed the Worm, and soberly considered his
friend. Hy's elaborate get-up suggested the ladies, a particular lady.
The Worm looked him over again from the fluff-bound Panama to the red
silk socks. A very particular lady! And he was speaking with wandering
eyes and an unreal sort of emphasis; as if his anger, though doubtless
genuine enough, were confused with some other emotion regarding which he
was not explicit.

“Where are you going now--over to the Mews?”

Hy started at the abrupt question, took the Worm's elbow, became
suddenly confidential.

“No,” he said, “not exactly. You see--everything's gone to smash.
The creditors of the paper won't keep me on. They'll put in a country
preacher with a string tie, and he'll bring his own staff. That's what
Pete's done to me! That's what he's done. I wouldn't go off this way,
right now, if it wasn't for the awful depression I feel. I did