“Sit down,” he said in a dead voice, “there.”
Hugh sank into the chair Morse indicated and then gripped his hands together. He felt weak and frightened, and absolutely unable to say anything. But Morse saved him the trouble.
“I suppose you think I am an awful baby,” he began, his voice thick with tears, “but I just can’t help it. I—I just can’t help it. I don’t want to cry, but I do.” And then he added defiantly, “Go ahead and think I’m a baby if you want to.”
“I don’t think you ’re a baby,” Hugh said softly; “I’m just sorry; that’s all. ... I hope I can help.” He smiled shyly, hopefully.
His smile conquered Morse. “You ’re a good kid, Carver,” he cried impulsively. “A darn good kid. I like you, and I’m going to tell you all about it. And I—I—I won’t care if you laugh.”
“I won’t laugh,” Hugh promised, relieved to think that there was a possibility of laughing. The trouble couldn’t be so awfully bad.
Morse blew his nose, stuck his handkerchief into his pocket, pulled it out again and dabbed his eyes, returned it to his pocket, and suddenly stood up.
“I’m homesick!” he blurted out. “I’m—I’m homesick, damned homesick. I’ve been homesick ever since I arrived. I—I just can’t stand it.
For an instant Hugh did have a wild desire to laugh. Part of the desire was caused by nervous relief, but part of it was caused by what seemed to
