Hy slammed down the receiver; tore off the alpaca coat and stuffed it into the waste basket; got into his street coat; observed the editorial shears on the desk; seized them, cut the buzzer wires, noted with satisfaction the nick he made in one blade; threw the shears to the floor and rushed from the office. CHAPTER XXIV--THE WILD FAGAN PERSON |AT the flower store in the station he bought a red carnation for his lapel and walked briskly toward the big clock. A slim girl was there at the inquiry desk, very attractively dressed. His pulse bounded. She turned a forlornly pretty face and he saw that it was Hilda Hansen of Wisconsin. Their hands met. They wandered off toward the dim corridor where the telephones are. “It was dear of you to come,” said she rather shyly. “I shall feel better now. I was beginning to think--well, that you didn't like me very well.” “Hilda--that's not fair!” he murmured. Murmured, IF the whole truth were told, rather blithely. For Hilda was pretty. Her soft dependence was the sweetest flattery. Her simple, easily satisfied mind was a relief after certain slightly more desperate adventures. And so, when he said, “I'm sorry you're going, Hilda. Is it for long?” he spoke as sincerely as is commonly done. “For good!” she blurted out in reply to this; and the tears came. He took her arm and walked her farther down the corridor. The little story was tumbling out now, helter skelter. Her father had stopped her allowance, ordered her home. She was leaving forever the freedom of dear old Greenwich Village. Naturally Hy kissed her. He kissed her again, right out on the train platform, with belated passengers elbowing by and porters looking on. It was Hy's little sacrament of freedom. He could kiss them now--in public--as he chose! For he was fired. No more gloomy old office! No more of the gliding Miss Hardwick! No more of the doctor's oratory! No more of that damn buzzer! The thing to do, of course, was to go back and pack up his belongings; but he couldn't bring himself to it. So he stayed out until lunch time, filling in the odd hour with an eleven o'clock movie show. He lunched expensively and alone at the club, off a porterhouse steak with mushrooms, potatoes “au gratin,” creamed spinach, musty ale in pewter, romaine salad, Camembert cheese with toasted biscuit and black coffee. When he reentered his office, who should be sitting there but the Worm. Before he could overcome a slight embarrassment and begin the necessary process of telling his story, a heavy crushing step sounded in the corridor, passed the door, went on into the big room in the corner. The Worm rose abruptly. “Isn't that the Walrus?” he asked. “The same,” said Hy. “I've got to see him. Will you take me in?” “Oh, sit down! I can tell you more than he can.” “Perhaps, but at another time.” Hy emerged from his self-absorption at this point sufficiently to observe that the Worm, usually smiling and calm, was laboring under some excitement.