Round
face propped upon one hand, the latter was staring motionless at a
thick pad of yellow paper flat before his eyes. And Garry himself was
sitting with his back toward the light, staring as motionlessly into
the cold fireplace. Merely from their attitudes, Steve knew that they
had been a long time silent; he knew that Fat Joe would have been
making conversation, no matter how desperately footless it might have
been, had he been conscious of the quality of the other's moody quiet.
And then, as he was himself about to go forward, barely in time to
check the word of greeting on his lips, Joe lifted pensive eyes to the
other's back. When Joe spoke his words were none too plain; he was
gnawing a pencil tip in most evident perplexity.
"Say," he broke that heavy silence, "say, Garry, how do you spell
reconciliation?"
Immediately the man outside in the dark decided not to announce himself
just yet. And much of his own puzzlement was mirrored in the worn face
which Garry turned toward his questioner.
"Reconciliation?" Garry repeated blankly. "What in thunder----"
"Of course I'd ought to be able to handle it," Joe cut in blandly
apologetic. "I just dismember whether it goes with a 'c' or a 'k.'"
Garry tried not to grin; but outside in the dark Steve allowed his
appreciation to spread and spread across his face.
"With a 'c,'" the man before the fireplace told him soberly.
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