"Charming!" sighed Clyde. "I'll be out to see you often, my dear."

"No!" Don exclaimed. "Oh, I don't mean for you not to come, but for Godsakes, play it straight!"

But Clyde didn't come out again for a long time, and meanwhile Don battled his desire to go again to the hotel bar. He drank at Harry's and the Tavern, and forced himself to conversation with the fight-fiends there. When fat and friendly Angelo served him his beer, the image of Ken's fascinating face swam before his eyes.

low, three weeks later, he had succumbed. He went in. The man behind the bar was not Ken. The relief he felt left him weak. Now he could have one drink and go. The place was dull tonight. The other patrons talked quietly and there was none of the rollicking spirit of an old English inn that had prevailed the first time. Don realized that it was Ken who had created it. He was a clown. He had danced, sung, carried naughty jokes from one end of the bar to the other, until everybody was laughing together.

He drained his glass and turned to leave when someone swung onto the stool beside him.

"Where's your friend?" asked Ken. Don felt his heart sink.

"Oh, hello," he managed to say casually. "What's this, a busman's holiday?" "Yup. I always come here on my night off... to drink those drinks I have to refuse when I'm working." He flashed that smile again.

"Well, in that case, let me buy you the one my friend offered."

"I accept with thanks... to your friend." Did Don imagine a trace of mockery about the young man's mouth? If it was there, it didn't stay long enough for him to be sure.

The atmosphere of the room changed magically with Ken's arrival. Don stayed until closing. He had a wonderful time. They left together, walking tipsily down the darkened streets. They were within two blocks of Don's house when it came to him with a jolt that Ken had accompanied him as naturally as though he had been asked.

"Where do you live?" Don asked.

"What's the difference," Ken replied. "I'm coming with you." Don stopped

dead.

"Wa-ait a minute," he said. "It's late. I don't think that would be a good idea."

"I've gotta come with you," Ken argued, as though Don were suddenly responsible for him. "I can't go home now. My wife'll murder me."

They were walking again, slowly. Don deliberately turned a wrong corner, to delay the arrival at his door. He needed time to think this thing out. "I didn't realize you were married,” he said. “You're awfully young." "I'm twenty-six.'

"And I'm nearly fifty." Don had to say that. He felt the necessity to throw every weapon at hand at the terrible compulsion that beset him. They were passing the park now and Don suggested that they sit for awhile on a bench. "Let's talk this thing over," he said.

So they sat, and Ken told him about getting a girl in trouble last year and having to marry her.

"She's a nice kid," he said. "But she's a dope. I've got a swell little boy, though!" He said this defensively although Don had offered no comment at all. "Go home," he urged. "I'm sure it will be all right. I'll even walk you home if you want.

"Have you got anything to drink at your place?" Ken demanded. Don answered truthfully before he could stop himself.

"I have a bottle of sherry."

"Well let's go, I gotta have a drink."

What's wrong with giving the kid a drink, Don debated with himself. Give him a drink and let him talk his troubles away.

"Okay" he sighed. "Let's go."

Ken was enchanted with the little house. He snapped out of his dejection the moment he entered, and became a third person; no longer the clown or the troubled boy, but now a wide-eyed child in a wonderland. He exclaimed

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