"I came to talk."

"Whitaker," blustered Kenny, "where's Brian?"

"Working."

"On your paper?"

"No. Brian's left New York. He's driving somebody's car. And I found
the job for him through my paper. When he has money enough he plans to
tramp off into God's green world of spring to get himself in trim.
Says he's stale and tired and thinking wrong. In the fall he's going
abroad for me and that, Kenny, is about all I can tell you."

"You mean," flared Kenny, rising with a ragged napkin in his hand, "you
mean, John, it's all you will tell me!"

"Sit down," said Whitaker, toasting a cracker over the alcohol flame.
"I prefer a sensible talk without fireworks."

Surprised and nettled, Kenny obeyed in spite of himself.

"Now," went on Whitaker quietly, "I came here to-night because I'm
Brian's friend and yours." He ignored the incredulous arch of Kenny's
eyebrows. "Where Brian is, where he will be, I don't propose to tell
you, now or at any other time. His wheres and his whens are the boy's
own business. His whys I think you know. He won't be back."

"He will!" thundered Kenny and thumped upon the table with his fist.