It is obvious to me that during these months Farrell, kept
on the run, ran like a hare (and a pretty tame one); that twice or
thrice he headed back for New York, and was headed off.
I passed over each letter, as it came, to Jimmy, It was over some
later letter, pretty much like the one I've just read to you, that
Jimmy, frowning thoughtfully, put the sudden question, "I say, Otty,
are we fond enough of him to start on another wild-goose chase?--to
America this time, and together?"
"Jack's my best friend, of course," I answered after a moment.
"You don't tell me--" and here I broke off, for he was eyeing me
queerly.
"The Professor is, or was, a pretty good friend of mine," said he.
"But you hesitated a moment. Why? . . . Oh, you needn't answer:
I'll tell you. When I asked, 'Are you so fond of him?' for a
moment--just for a flash--you hadn't Jack Foe in your mind, but
Farrell."
"Well, that's true," I owned. "I'm pretty angry with Jack: he's
playing it outside the touch-line, in my opinion. Except that I
detest cruelty, Farrell's nothing to me, of course.
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