of suggesting entering it. Following his father, the smell of the old, sooty day-coaches assailed David and restored to him the sensations of long ago with his father, particularly of the time when he stepped upon a car platform on the hot, September day when he first set out from Itanaca on his way to Northwestern.
His father turned on the platform, and David reached a hand after him—David gulped; he could not help it. Pride in him and hope, high aspirations for him then had burned in his father's eyes and thrilled in the grasp of his father's fingers; now was disappointment, disillusion.
"Good-by, father," David said. "I'm sorry I spoke so; but—I meant it."
"Good-by, boy," his father said.
David did not wait for the train to go out but, when he passed the fruit stand, he bought the biggest basket there and he ran back and thrust it in the open window beside his father. "For mother," he cried, as the train started. "Make her take care of herself."
He stood watching the train till it was out of sight; and then, from the assertion of old habit, barely thinking what he was doing, he entered a telephone booth in the station. So far as he thought, he meant to call Fidelia; but it happened to be the hour at which, long ago, he had never failed to telephone to Alice and after he had spoken a number, he did not realize what he had done, even after the call was answered.
A voice said: "Yes."
Since the switchboard girl at the hotel usually answered differently, he asked: "Who is this, please?"
The voice said: "Is it David?"
