The Day of Days | Page 5

Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the head of
P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ...
George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes, ruefully
rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at the reverberations inside
it.
Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant,
regarding him with tight-lipped interest.
"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did you do that to me?"
"I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"
"Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked
himself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like the
kick of a mule, Per--"
"Cut that!"
"P.S., I mean," George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell me
you was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"
"I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you," replied P.

Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump your
head on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if you
tried it another time you might dent that dome of yours. Better accept
my offer and be friends."
"Never call you Per--"
"Don't say it!"
"Oh, all right--all right," George agreed plaintively. "And if I promise,
I'm in on that theatre party?"
"That's my offer."
"It's hard," George sighed regretfully--"damn' hard. But whatever you
say goes. I'll keep your secret."
"Good!" P. Sybarite extended one of his small, delicately modelled
hands. "Shake," said he, smiling wistfully.

II
INSPIRATION
When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itself
until seven o'clock Monday morning, P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross, with at
least every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaring
congestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted the
flood tide of homing Brooklynites, won their way through City Hall
Park, and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunny
side of lower Broadway.
To be precise, the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross; P.
Sybarite, instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion would
ill become one of his inches, contented himself with keeping up--his
gait an apparently effortless, tireless, and comfortable amble, congruent
with bowed shoulders, bended head, introspective eyes, and his aspect
in general of patient preoccupation.
From time to time George, who was maintaining an unnatural and
painful silence, his mental processes stagnant with wonder and dull
resentment, eyed his companion askance, with furtive suspicion. Their
association was now one of some seven years' standing; and it seemed a
grievous thing that, after posing so long as the patient butt of his rude
humour, P.S. should have so suddenly turned and proved himself the
better man--and that not mentally alone.
"Lis'n--" George interjected of a sudden.

P. Sybarite started. "Eh?" he enquired blankly.
"I wanna know where you picked up all that classy footwork."
"Oh," returned P.S., depreciatory, "I used to spar a bit with the fellows
when I was a--ah--when I was younger."
"When you was at _what_?" insisted Bross, declining to be fobbed off
with any such flimsy evasion.
"When I was at liberty to."
"Huh! You mean, when you was at college."
"Please yourself," said P. Sybarite wearily.
"Well, you was at college oncet, wasn't you?"
"I was," P.S. admitted with reluctance; "but I never graduated. When I
was twenty-one I had to quit to go to work for Whigham & Wimper."
"G'wan," commented the other. "They ain't been in business
twenty-five years."
"I'm only thirty-one."
"More news for Sweeny. You'll never see forty again."
"That statement," said P. Sybarite with some asperity, "is an uncivil
untruth dictated by a spirit of gratuitous contentiousness--"
"Good God!" cried Bross in alarm. "I'm wrong and you're right and I
won't do it again--and forgive me for livin'!"
"With pleasure," agreed P. Sybarite pleasantly....
"It's a funny world," George resumed in philosophic humour, after a
time. "You wouldn't think I could work in the same dump with you
seven years and only be startin' to find out things about you--like to-day.
I always thought your name was Pete--honest."
"Continue to think so," P. Sybarite advised briefly.
"Your people had money, didn't they, oncet?"
"I've been told so, but if true, it only goes to prove there's nothing in the
theory of heredity...."
"I gotcha," announced Bross, upon prolonged and painful analysis.
"How?" asked P. Sybarite, who had fallen to thinking of other matters.
"I mean, I just dropped to your high-sign to mind my own business. All
right, P.S. Far be it from me to wanta pry into your Past. Besides, I 'm
scared to--never can tell what I'll turn up--like, f'rinstance, Per--"
"Steady!"
"Like that they usta call you when you was innocent, I mean."
To this P. Sybarite made no response; and