“What was it, Mr. Marple?”
“Say, Mr. Webber—y’know it’s funny—yah won’t believe me—but up to the time I was about twenty years old, a grown man, I was crazy to be a railway engineer. No kiddin’. I was nuts about it. An’ I’d a-been just crazy enough to’ve gone ahead an’ got a job on the railway if the old man hadn’t yanked me by the collar an’ told me t’snap out of it. Yah know I’m a Down-Easter by birth—don’t talk like it any more—I been here too long—but that’s where I grew up. My old man was a plumber in Augusta, Maine. So when I tells him I’m gonna be a locomotive engineer he boots me one in the seat of the pants an’ tells me I ain’t no such thing. ‘I’ve sent yah to school,’ he says, ‘you’ve had ten times the schoolin’ that I had, an’ now yah tell me that you’re gonna be a railway hogger. Well, you’re not,’ the old man says, ‘you’re gonna be one member of the fambly that’s comin’ home at night wit’ clean hands an’ a white collar. Now you get the hell outa here an’ hunt yah up a job in some decent high-class business where yah’ll have a chanct t’advance an’ associate wit’ your social ekals.’ Jesus! It was a lucky thing for me he took that stand or I’d never a-got where I am to-day. But I was good an’ sore about it at the time. An’ say, Mr. Webber—you’re gonna laugh when I tell yah this one—I ain’t actually over the darn thing yet. No kiddin’. When I see one of these big engines bargin’ down the track I still get that funny crawly feelin’ I usta have when I was a kid an’ looked at ‘em. The guys at the office had t’laugh about it when I told ‘em, an’ now when I come in they call me Casey Jones.—Well, what d’yah say yah have another little snifter before I go?”
“Thanks, I’d like to, but maybe I’d better not. I’ve still got a little work I ought to do before I turn in.”
“Well now, Mr. Webber, I know just how it is. An’ that’s the way I had yah sized up from the first. That guy’s a writer, I says, or in some sort of intelleckshul occupation where he’s got to use his head—was I right or wrong?”
“Oh, you were right.”
“Wel!, I’m glad to’ve metcha, Mr. Webber. Don’t make yourself a stranger round here. Yah know, a guy gets sorta lonely sometimes. My wife died four years ago so I been livin’ upstairs here ever sinct—sorta figgered that a single guy didn’t need no more room than I got here. Come up to see me. I’m interested in youman nature an’ 1 like to talk to people an’ get their different reactions. So any time yah feel like chewin’ the rag a bit, drop in.”
“Oh, I will, I will.”
“Good night, Mr. Webber.”
“Good night, Mr. Marple.”
Good night. Good night. Good night.
Across the basement hall, in another room similar to George Webber’s, lived an old man by the name of Wakefield. He had a son somewhere in New York who paid his rent, but Mr. Wakefield rarely saw his son. He was a brisk and birdy little man with a chirping, cheerful voice; and, although he was almost ninety, he always seemed to be in good health and was still immensely active. His son had provided him with a room to live in, and he had a little money of his own—a few dollars a month from a pension—enough to supply his meagre wants; but he lived a life of utter loneliness, seeing his son only on the occasion of a holiday or a rare visit, and the rest of the time living all by himself in his basement room.
Yet he had as brave and proud a spirit as any man on earth. He longed desperately for companionship, but he would have died rather than admit he was lonely. So independent was he, and so sensitive, that, while he was always courteous and cheerful, his tone when he responded to a greeting was a little cold and distant, lest anyone should think he was too forward and eager. But, once satisfied of one’s friendliness, no one could respond more warmly or more cordially than old man Wakefield.