"
"I mean--I'm afraid of it for you."
There was a silence; they couldn't see each other. Brown's heart was
beating fast.
"It is very generous of you to--think of me," came her voice, lower but
very friendly.
"I ca-can't avoid it," he stammered, and wanted to kick himself for what
he had blurted out.
Another pause--longer this time. And then:
"I am going to enter my house and climb up on the fence.... Would you
mind waiting a moment?"
"I will wait here," said Beekman Brown, "until I see you." He added to
himself: "I'm going mad rapidly and I know it and don't care.... _What_--
a--girl!"
While he waited, legs swinging, astride the back fence, he examined his
injuries--thoughtfully touched the triangular tear in his trousers,
inspected minor sartorial and corporeal lacerations, set his hat firmly
upon his head, and gazed across the monotony of the back-yard fences at
Clarence. The cat eyed him disrespectfully, paws tucked under, tail
curled up against his well-fed flank--disillusioned, disgusted,
unapproachable.
Presently, through the palings of a back yard on Sixty-fifth Street,
Brown saw a small boy, evidently the progeny of some caretaker, regarding
him intently.
"Say, mister," he began as soon as noticed, "you have tore your pants on
a nail."
"Thanks," said Brown, coldly; "will you be good enough to mind your
business?"
"I thought I'd tell you," said the small boy, delightedly aware that the
information displeased Brown.
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