He went out where Bradley was talking earnestly to the cab-driver. “Let’s not go to town, Bradley,” he said, yawning. “It’s so far and chilly and everything.” Quickly, as if inspired by a new and daring thought, he grasped the boy by the wrist, and exclaimed enthusiastically, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do--we’ll stay in Cambridge!” “By Heaven, I’ll go you! Eh-h-h-h-h-h--we’ll stay in Cambridge! we’ll stay in Cambridge!” He danced all over the street in a frenzy of mirth and movement, singing again and again, “We’ll _stay_ in Cambridge! we’ll _stay_ in Cambridge! we’ll _stay_ in Cambridge!” while Hewitt said, “Good-night--sorry he troubled you,” to the cabman. A voice from one of the small wooden houses that basks in the shadow of Claverly, yelled, “Oh, shut tup!” very peevishly, just as Bradley threw himself at Horace with a prolonged meaningless scream. “What do you think you’d like to do now?” asked Hewitt, after a moment, bracing himself to support his burden. “Wait till I get my breath, and we’ll do--everything,” panted the burden. It laughed hysterical, extremely silly little laughs. Then solemnly, soberly, Bradley led the way to the curbstone. “Come over here--I want to talk to you; sit down,” he said. “Will you wait here and not let a sparrow get by--not a single one--while I dash across and find something to drink?” “It’s getting cold, Bradley; how long will you be?” “You won’t know I’ve been gone, I’ll be so quick.” He was off,--half way across the street like a skittish young animal,--then tip-toeing back, stealthy, furtive, mysterious. He crouched by the man on the curbstone, and with his mouth close to Hewitt’s ear whispered earnestly:-- “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell? It’s a secret, you know.” “I don’t think you’d better,” gravely. “I must,--it’s killing me.” Horace looked to see if the fellow was crying. “I’ll never repeat it to any one,” he promised. “It’s awful,--horrible,” moaned Bradley, drawing closer to Hewitt, and putting his arms round him. “It’s this,” he sobbed; “I don’t believe in either Space or Time.” He was gone again, with a backward spring that sent the other sprawling. Horace sat up and watched the boy dart across to an opposite house, fumble a moment at the door, and disappear with a slam. Instantly every window upstairs and down glowed yellow. The noise of a piano, slapped pettishly from bass to treble by an open palm, came over to the young man who sat thinking on the curbstone.