Peter found himself turning to Pat for companionship. Perhaps he did not exactly turn, but was rather tugged about without will of his own. The needs of Pat were increasingly greater and Peter was caught up into them now that he had nothing in particular to do with his evenings. Instead of taking Vonnie out to an early dinner before the show he helped to put Pat to bed. It didn't seem quite virile to Peter, but it was easier than hanging around Jack's or Joel's or the Eldorado. Of course, Pat was supposed to be in bed long before the night life of New York had really begun, but bit by bit he edged his time ahead until it was often eleven or after before he fell off to sleep. The child fought against sleep as if it were a count of ten. Never within Peter's memory did Pat express a willingness to go to sleep, much less a desire. It was always necessary to conduct him forcibly over the line where consciousness ceased. Peter was swept under the tyranny of this obligation a couple of nights after Vonnie went away. Unable to think up anything to do, he came back to the flat a little after ten. He saw a light burning down the hall in Pat's room and occasional entreaties and commands drifted out. Pat wanted a drink of water and the toy alligator and the electric engine and six freight cars. Looking at his watch Peter found that it was half past ten. He walked into the child's room and exclaimed sternly, "What's all this racket about?" "He wants the funny section read to him," explained Kate, "and it's been lost some place. I can't find it anywhere." "That's perfect rubbish," said Peter. "I've looked all over for it, Mr. Neale." "That wasn't what I meant was rubbish, Kate. I'm glad you lost it. I want you to keep on losing it. I meant it's rubbish for him to be staying up this late and asking for things." "Yes sir." "Now we'll both say good night to him, Kate, and let him go to sleep." Pat began to cry not only loudly but with a certain note of sincerity which caught Peter's ear. "What's the matter with him now?" "He made me promise I'd tell him a story if I couldn't find the funny paper," said Kate. "It's too late now and anyway if he made you do it, Kate, it isn't a promise. It don't count." "Yes, Mr. Neale. But it's so set he is he'll be calling me back all the night long for me to tell him the story. It's nothing he does be forgetting." "All right, Kate, we'll settle that very easily. You go out and I'll stay and he can cry his head off." "Where'll I go, Mr. Neale?" "I don't care, Kate. Go any place you like. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. Where do you usually go?" "To my sister's in Jamaica, but it's no time to be routing them out at this hour." "Well, let me see. I tell you, Kate, there's a moving picture theatre down there at Fifty-ninth Street that keeps going till after one. Here's some money. You go there and see the picture and I'll stay and show this young man he can't get everything he cries for."