"I am closing the office for the day," said Droom. For no apparent reason a smile spread over the lower part of his face and Graydon, bold as he was, turned his eyes away.
"I thought I'd stop in and pick up the governor for a ride home in my motor," said he, turning to the door.
"Yours is one of the first out here, I suppose," came from the thin lips of the old clerk.
Graydon laughed.
"Possibly. The company charges a nickel a ride--half a dime--Going down, sir?" Graydon had rung for the elevator and was waiting in front of the grating.
A look containing a curious compound of affectionate reproach and a certain senile gratification at being made the object of the boy's condescending raillery crossed Droom's countenance. Without, however, answering his question, he slowly and carefully closed the door, tried it vigorously, and joined Bansemer at the shaft. With Droom, words were unnecessary when actions could speak for themselves.
"Still living over in Wells Street, Mr. Droom?" went on Graydon, thoroughly at home with the man whom he had feared and despised by stages from childhood up.
"It's good enough for me," said Droom shortly. ''Tisn't Michigan Avenue, the Drive or Lincoln Park Boulevard, but it's just as swell as I am--or ever hope to be."
"There's nothing against Wells Street but--it got ashamed of itself when it crossed the river."
"They call it Fifth Avenue," sneered Droom, "but it isn't THE Avenue, is it?" Bansemer was surprised to oote a tone of affectionate pride in the question.
"No indeed!"
"Oh, there's only one, Mr. Graydon," said the old clerk, quite warmly; "our own Fifth Avenue."
"I had no idea you cared so much for swagger things, Mr. Droom," observed the other, genuinely surprised.
"Even Broadway is heaven to me," said Droom, some of the rasp gone from his voice. "Good-bye; I go this way," he said when they reached the sidewalk a little later. The young man watched his gaunt figure as it slouched away in the semi-darkness.
"By George, the old chap is actually homesick!" muttered he. "I didn't think it was in him."
Droom had rooms over a millinery shop in Wells Street. There was a bedroom at the back and a "living-room" in front, overlooking the street from the third story of the building. Of the bedchamber there is but little to say, except that it contained a bed, a washstand, a mirror, two straight-backed chairs and a clothes-press. Droom went out for his bath--every Saturday night. The "living-room," however, was queer in more ways than one. In one corner, on a chest of drawers, stood his oil stove, while in the opposite corner, a big sheet-iron heater made itself conspicuous. Firewood was piled behind the stove winter and summer, Droom lamenting that one could not safely discriminate between the seasons in Chicago. The chest of drawers contained his stock of provisions, his cooking and table utensils, his medicine and a small assortment of carpenter's tools. He had no use for an icebox.