The Brown Study | Page 3

going to take every joke with
such deadly seriousness--"
"You took it lightly, did you? It's seemed like a real joke to you? It's
grown funnier and funnier every day, each time it caught your eye?"
But now Jennings groaned. "No, it hasn't. But that's because it's too true
to keep on seeming funny."
Brown suddenly brought his fist down on the arm of Jennings's rocker
with a thump which made his nerve-strung visitor jump in his chair. "It
_isn't_ true! It's not the saying of a brave man, it's the whine of a
coward. Brave men don't say that sort of thing. The sort of thing they
do say--sometimes to other men, oftener to themselves alone--is what a
famous Englishman said: '_If you do fight, fight it out; and don't give in
while you can stand and see_!' How's that for a motto? If that had been
tacked on the wall in your office all this while, would it have made you
feel like giving up, every time you looked at it?"
Brown's eyes were glowing. Jennings had slumped down in his chair,
his head on his hand, his face partly hidden from his host. There was
silence in the room.
Brown kept Jennings overnight, making a bed for him on his couch,
where he could see the fire. As Jennings sat on the couch, ready to turn
in, Brown came out from his bedroom, a long figure in his bathrobe
and slippers, and knelt down before the old rocking-chair. Jennings, in
his surprise, sat perfectly still, looking at him. He could see Brown's
lean, strong face in profile, the fine head--it was a very fine head,
though perhaps Jennings did not appreciate that--a little lifted, the eyes
closed. Brown prayed in a conversational tone, as if the One he
addressed were in the room above, with an opening between.
Then he rose, a little tender smile on his face, said, "Good-night, old
man," and went away into the inner room--the door of which he did not
close.
What did he leave behind him? What was in the air? Was this a

common room, a homely room, lighted only by a smoldering fire?
What was it which suddenly and unaccountably gripped George
Jennings's heart, so that a sob rose in his throat? What made him want
to cry, like a schoolboy, with his head on his arms? With all his long
misery, tears had never once come to his relief. His heart had been hard
and his eyes dry. Now, somehow, he felt something give way.
* * * * *
Jennings slept all night, and came out to breakfast with a queer,
shamefaced aspect, yet with considerably less heaviness of foot than he
had shown the night before. He ate heartily, as well he might, for the
food was extremely appetizing. When he got up to go he stood still by
his chair, seeming to be trying to say something. Seeing this, Brown
came over to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, lad?" said he interrogatively. He was smiling and the smile
transformed his face, as always.
"I--feel better, this morning," stammered Jennings. "I--want to thank
you. I'm ashamed of the way I talked last night. It was as you said. I
knew better, but I couldn't seem to--to--"
Brown nodded. "Of course you knew better," he said heartily. "We all
know better. Every man prays--at some time or other. It's when we stop
praying that things get dark. Begin again, and something happens. It
always happens. And sometimes the thing that happens is that we get a
good sleep and are able to see things differently in the morning.
Good-bye--and come back to-night."
"Shall I?" Jennings asked eagerly.
"Surely. We'll have oysters to-night, roasted on the half-shell over the
coals in the fireplace. Like 'em?"
"I never ate any that way," admitted Jennings. "It sounds good." And he
smiled broadly, a real smile at last.
"Wait till you try them," promised Brown.

III
BROWN'S BORROWED BABY
On the following Saturday, at five in the afternoon, the previous hours
having been filled with a long list of errands of all sorts, yet all having
to do with people, and the people's affairs, seldom his own, Brown
turned his steps home-ward. The steps lagged a little, for he was tired.

At the house next his own--a shabby little house, yet with rows of
blooming scarlet geraniums in tin cans on its two lower window sills,
and clean, if patched, muslin curtains behind the plants--Brown turned
in once more. Standing in the kitchen doorway he put a question:
"Mrs. Kelcey, may I borrow Norah for an hour?"
The person addressed looked up from her work, grinned a broad Irish
grin, pushed back a lock of bothersome hair with