I frowned gloomily.
“But, judging again,” went on the reader of men, “I’d say you ain’t got a wife.”
“No,” said I, rising restlessly. “No, no, no, I ain’t. But I will have, by the arrows of Cupid! That is, if—”
My voice must have trailed away and muffled itself in uncertainty and despair.
“I see you have a story yourself,” said the dusty vagrant—impudently, it seemed to me. “Suppose you take your dime back and spin your yarn for me. I’m interested myself in the ups and downs of unfortunate ones who spend their evenings in the park.”
Somehow, that amused me. I looked at the frowsy derelict with more interest. I did have a story. Why not tell it to him? I had told none of my friends. I had always been a reserved and bottled-up man. It was psychical timidity or sensitiveness—perhaps both. And I smiled to myself in wonder when I felt an impulse to confide in this stranger and vagabond.
“Jack,” said I.
“Mack,” said he.
“Mack,” said I, “I’ll tell you.”
“Do you want the dime back in advance?” said he.
