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Some one hailed Lane, and he turned to recognize an old
acquaintance--Matt Jones. They walked along the street together,
meeting other men who knew Lane, some of whom greeted him heartily.
Then, during an ensuing hour, he went into familiar stores and the
postoffice, the hotel and finally the Bradford Inn, meeting many
people whom he had known well. The sum of all their greetings left him
in cold amaze. At length Lane grasped the subtle import--that people
were tired of any one or anything which reminded them of the war. He
tried to drive that thought from lodgment in his mind. But it stuck.
And slowly he gathered the forces of his spirit to make good the
resolve with which he had faced this day--to withstand an appalling
truth.
At the inn he sat before an open fire and pondered between brief
conversations of men who accosted him. On the one hand it was
extremely trying, and on the other a fascinating and grim study--to
meet people, and find that he could read their minds. Had the war
given him some magic sixth sense, some clairvoyant power, some gift of
vision? He could not tell yet what had come to him, but there was
something.
Business men, halting to chat with Lane a few moments, helped along
his readjustment to the truth of the strange present. Almost all kinds
of business were booming. Most people had money to spend. And there
was a multitude, made rich by the war, who were throwing money to the
four winds. Prices of every commodity were at their highest peak, and
supply could not equal demand. An orgy of spending was in full swing,
and all men in business, especially the profiteers, were making the
most of the unprecedented opportunity.
After he had rested, Lane boarded a street car and rode out to the
suburbs of Middleville where the Maynards lived. Although they had
lost their money they still lived in the substantial mansion that was
all which was left them of prosperous days. House and grounds now
appeared sadly run down.
A maid answered Lane's ring, and let him in. Lane found himself rather
nervously expecting to see Mrs. Maynard. The old house brought back to
him the fact that he had never liked her. But he wanted to see
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Margaret. It turned out, however, that mother and daughter were out.
"Come up, old top," called Blair's voice from the hall above.
So Lane went up to Blair's room, which he remembered almost as well as
his own, though now it was in disorder. Blair was in his shirt
sleeves. He looked both gay and spent. Red Payson was in bed, and his
face bore the hectic flush of fever.
"Aw, he's only had too much to eat," declared Blair, in answer to
Lane's solicitation.
"How's that, Red?" asked Lane, sitting down on the bed beside Payson.
"It's nothing, Dare.... I'm just all in," replied Red, with a weary
smile.
"I telephoned Doc Bronson to come out," said Blair, "and look us over.
That made Red as sore as a pup. Isn't he the limit? By thunder, you
can't do anything for some people."
Blair's tone and words of apparent vexation were at variance with the
kindness of his eyes as they rested upon his sick comrade.
"I just came from Bronson's," observed Lane. "He's been our doctor for
as long as I can remember."
Both Lane's comrades searched his face with questioning eyes, and
while Lane returned that gaze there was a little constrained silence.
"Bronson examined me--and said I'd live to be eighty," added Lane,
with dry humor.
"You're a liar!" burst out Blair.
On Red Payson's worn face a faint smile appeared. "Carry on, Dare."
Then Blair fell to questioning Lane as to all the news he had heard,
and people he had met.
"So Manton turned you down cold," said Blair, ponderingly.
"I didn't get to see him," replied Lane. "He sent out word that my old
job was held by a girl who did my work better and at less pay."
The blood leaped to Blair's white cheek.
"What'd you say?" he queried.
"Nothing much. I just trailed out.... But the truth is, Blair--I
couldn't have stood that place--not for a day."
"I get you," rejoined Blair. "That isn't the point, though. I always
wondered if we'd find our old jobs open to us. Of course, I couldn't
fill mine now. It was an outside job--lots of walking."
So the conversation see-sawed back and forth, with Red Payson
listening in languid interest.
"Have you seen any of the girls?" asked Blair.
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"I met Mel Iden," replied Lane.
"You did? What did she--"
"Mel told me what explained some of your hints."
"Ahuh! Poor Mel! How'd she look?"
"Greatly changed," replied Lane, thoughtfully. "How do you remember
Mel?"
"Well, she was pretty--soulful face--wonderful smile--that sort of
thing."
"She's beautiful now, and sad."
"I shouldn't wonder. And she told you right out about the baby?"
"No. That came out when she said I couldn't call on her, and I wanted
to know why."
"But you'll go anyhow?"
"Yes."
"So will I," returned Blair, with spirit. "Dare, I've known for over a
year about Mel's disgrace. You used to like her, and I hated to tell
you. If it had been Helen I'd have told you in a minute. But Mel....
Well, I suppose we must expect queer things. I got a jolt this
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