hand on a quivering shoulder and said gently: “What is it, Morse? What’s the matter?” Morse ran his hand despairingly through his red hair, shook his head, and made no answer.
“Come on, old man; buck up.” Hugh’s voice trembled; it was husky with sympathy. “Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”
Then Morse looked up, his face stained with tears, his eyes inflamed, almost desperate. He stared at Hugh wonderingly. For an instant he was angry at the intrusion, but his anger passed at once. He could not miss the tenderness and sym¬ pathy in Hugh’s face; and the boy’s hand was still pressing with friendly insistence on his shoulder. There was something so boyishly frank, so clean and honest about Hugh that his irritation melted into confidence; and he craved a confidant pas¬ sionately.
“Shut the door,” he said dully, and reached into his trousers pocket for his handkerchief. He mopped his face and eyes vigorously while Hugh was closing the door, and then blew his nose as if he hated it. But the tears continued to come, and all during his talk with Hugh he had to pause oc¬ casionally to dry his eyes.
Hugh stood awkwardly in the middle of the rug, not knowing whether to sit down or not. Morse was clutching his handkerchief in his hand and staring at the floor. Finally he spoke up.
