The ‘fella,’ to Mr Newman, was the ominous final gesture at friendship between them. It took his breath with it as it left Mr Gargan’s mouth.

His first move was toward the door. But he stopped and turned to Mr Gargan and said, ‘I can’t see how I can accept the exchange, Mr Gargan. I wish you’d reconsider it.’

Mr Gargan’s eyes stopped roving. ‘I can’t reconsider it, Newman.’

Mr Newman felt the pressure under which his chief was acting and sympathized, ‘It’s not as though you didn’t know what I am. You know I’m not …’

‘Mr Lorsch doesn’t know but what he sees. And he didn’t like what he saw. Neither will others, maybe, who come into the office for the first time. Mr Lorsch has certain ideas about what the office ought to look like and he’s got a right to those ideas. Doesn’the?’

‘Well, I’ll have to leave then.’

‘It’s up to you, Newman. I think you’re being silly, but I wouldn’t want you here if you’re going to be unhappy about it.’

‘No, I’ll have to leave.’

‘Why don’t you sleep on it?’

‘I can’t. I …’

He choked and stood there. Waiting. Waiting for …

A look at Mr Gargan’s tight, graven face told him he was waiting for nothing at all.

‘I’ll say good-bye then,’ he said heavily.

‘Think it over …’

‘No, I’m afraid I’ll have to say good-bye,’ he said, afraid he was going to cry.

He walked out of the office without even waiting for Mr Gargan’s reply. At the end of the day he stood outside the entrance of the building for a moment. The five-o’clock mobs were roaring past toward the subways. He got into step and moved with the tide. In his side pocket lay his fountain pen desk set which he had bought long ago. Its heavy base weighted his pocket awkwardly. Finally he took it out and carried it in his hand.

Chapter Seven

EMERGING from the subway he put the pen set back into his pocket, and walked toward his house a little more slowly than usual. In the subway he had taken off his glasses, but he could see Mrs Depaw spraying her lawn and he nodded to her with his accustomed reserve. Fat Mrs Bligh was sitting high on her brick porch waiting for her husband. She called down to him asking if it was as hot in the city as it was here. With a shake of his head and a chuckle, he replied that it certainly was, and went on. The small orphan boy whom the Kennedys had adopted said hello to him from the stoop of their house. Glancing blindly up toward the windows to discover whether any of the Kennedys were watching, he blinked encouragingly to the unfortunate boy, and said, ‘How are you this evening?’ No one else was out on the block. His eyes narrowed again as he walked, and his arm was slightly crooked over the sagging pocket. A fine dusty haze hung over the street and he felt covered with sooty perspiration. His shower beckoned like a sparkling new life.