N.
He walked to the office of the Caravanserai, blindly, quietly.
He paid his bill, and found that he had only fifty dollars left.
He could not get himself to eat the waiting high tea. There was
a seven-fourteen train for London. He took it. Meantime he
wrote out a cable to his New York bank for a hundred and fifty
dollars. To keep from thinking in the train he talked gravely
and gently to an old man about the brave days of England, when
men threw quoits. He kept thinking over and over, to the tune
set by the rattling of the train trucks: "Friends... I got to
make friends, now I know what they are.... Funny some guys don't
make friends. Mustn't forget. Got to make lots of 'em in
New York. Learn how to make 'em."
He arrived at his room on Tavistock Place about eleven, and
tried to think for the rest of the night of how deeply he was
missing Morton of the cattle-boat now that--now that he had no
friend in all the hostile world.
In a London A. B. C. restaurant Mr. Wrenn was talking to an
American who had a clipped mustache, brisk manners, a
Knight-of-Pythias pin, and a mind for duck-shooting, hardware-selling,
and cigars.
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