when his friend had left him had been, indeed, a crisis, because it was
on that night that his father had come to him. It was not that he had
not been aware of his father before, but he had been aware of him only
as he had been aware of light and heat and food. Now it had become a
definite wonder as to whether this new friend had been sent to take the
place of the old one. Certainly the new friend had very little to do
with all that old life of which the fountain was the door. He belonged,
most definitely, to the new one, and everything about him--the
delightfully mysterious tick of his gold watch, the solid, firm grasp of
his hand, the sure security of his shoulder upon which Ernest Henry now
gloriously rode--these things were of this world and none other.

It was a different relationship, this, from any other that Ernest Henry
had ever known, but there was no doubt at all about its pleasant
flavour. Just as in other days he had watched for his friend's
appearance, so now he waited for that evening hour that always brought
his father. The door would open, the square, set figure would appear....
Very pleasant, indeed. Meanwhile Ernest Henry was instructed that the
right thing to say on his father's appearance was "Dada."

But he knew better. His father's name was really "Damn."


VI

The days and weeks passed. There had been no sign of his friend.... Then
the crisis came.

That old wall-to-screen marathon had been achieved, and so
contemptuously banished. There was now the great business of marching