Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-12-01

~ ALS JaQS-cOtOreO mu1ner nor the
tilt Of his hat could disguise the
sort of detected Group his body seemed to be
giving, nor hide the round, apprehensive ami
mostly OF his eyebrow and his eye.
No one had recognized Willoughby at the
depot. That, at any rate, was to the good. He
had hung back for a few wabbly minutes to
let the crowd make its getaway, the queer
dowdy, slow bilge of crowd. Why did the
elderly women In black have to carry oranges
and knitting and Sodden ham sandwiches in
little wicker baskets, which the children also
used?
They shuf1ed out into the asperlty of the
December noon, and Willoughby hung miSer-
ably behind them. He hated the much trodden.
much-handled ticket Office. He had always
hated 1t, and though it was three years since
he'd been home, it was just the same as ever,
he hated it Just the same. Until the cars and
people were gone outside, he'd wait In the
draughty ticket Office and smoke a cigarette,
AS he stood on the threshold, buttoning his
SOFT WOOL overcoat and pulling his hat over his
eyes, he shivered at the prospect before him.
His cheeks were stiu burning from the train
and his body was hot, but his hands and his
feet were frozen, and he felt rotten from having
had to be up so early to catch his train from
New York. But 1t wasn't physical, his suffer-
ing. It wasn't the unlovely landscape before
him IN the gritty hght-an earth rudeNy dis.
emboweled, dried weeds impending defunct news
papers in their effort to bury themselves and
nowerng out Of this horror q crop Of scream
ing one-story buildings, It hurt Willoughby to
see these things, but the really painful prospect
was up the hill, out Of sight, in that home to
which he was returning, the home where his
father was waiting for him.
MY heart was goosehesh!" he said to him
self. How did ever live in this hole?"
THE wonder of this accident occupied VIII
Ioughby as he walked up the hill Luck
ny 1t was noon, and people were Getting lunch
or something. The streets were practically
empty. so that, by switching his nose as a sort
OF tnler the minute he thought he was being
1oentined, he never at any one moment offered
more than disappearing profle and thus
averted any excessive ovation But his speed
In WaK1ng-a rapid, uneven lurch that re-
NAMED pre-war in spite Of everything but that
carried him along-saved him from being
greeted while at the same time, o good God
1t brought him nearer home.
Where would he eatP He hadn't been mad
enough to try the buffet, with its zincy coffee.
But to eat home-no! He'd stop at a h1nch-
room. The Palace Lunch name fin white
porcelain, clouded window through which
red and green foods tagged the public. a door
that opened on moist spongy warmth and
many odors almost zeyolted Willoughby In an
moecorouS manner. He sincerely hated it.
But it was that or his mothers cooking.
He tried clam chowder and wished he hadn't.
Tastes metallic" Then he ordered black
conee and cream. baked apple consoled him.
Real Something IS still real"
They wouldn't be worrying about him, he
knew that, and this delay was worth It, He
felt stronger to meet his father, after the three
years. His mother? Well poor old thing, she
was 80 self-edacing it didn't matter 90 much
It was Daddie that mattered, and especially
now.
Willoughby braced himself for the awful
plunge into the domestic atmosphere. All the
way down Conger street he kept telling him
self he'd have to be sympathetic anyhow "But
III catch the six train back. have to get
back 10 town." ...
His mother opened the door. .-.z...
There you are" she said, looking up at
him and putting her arms arounc. his neck.
mixing herself UP with his hat and his muffier,
Eve kind Of expected you"