CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Angus paused inside the door of the composing room. It was unchanged: he could remember every article of furniture, every ray of light which penetrated through dim windows, the position of every article, even the size and shape of stains upon the wall. It was home, the one spot upon earth for which he had known affection. He hesitated, overcome by the flood of recollections which swelled up within him, recollections which had to do with shelter and kindness, with friendships and with loyalty. These things had been born into Angus Burke’s life in this dingy room…. To him it seemed the fountain head of all virtues.
At a case stood Bishwhang, older, larger, but unmistakably Bishwhang; bending over a stone was Jake Schwartz—unaltered, it seemed, by the shading of a hair. He looked up, eying Angus truculently.
“Wa-al, what you want?” he growled.
Angus did not answer, could not answer. Something within him cried out to these friends
153
