concealed, manifested itself mostly on rainy days when he would rub his hands and clasp them together over a friendly kerosene stove and invite old customers to chat with him there.

The rain stopped and the day reminded Bert of a black and white photograph "a present of the past" -and the sequel to this thought was a quick look at the big round clock on the green pole in front of Max's Jewelry Shop. Bert grinned anticipatively. Brandon would be by in just three more minutes. Brandon the boy, Brandon the man, the big executive Brandon. All of whom Bert had loved and would love forever. And proud? Indeed, how proud was he of his Brandon who had made so good in the past quarter of a century. Yes, he was glad even, not saddened, that circumstances were as they were; he was mostly responsible for that success. Was it not, after all, their love for each other that had forced Brandon to choose between a career and the risk of discovery? Bert could scarcely remember now the anguish of those first years when Brandon had made the choice. For, after all, hadn't it been established years ago that each man was living his life as it should be?

Now, rubbing his hands over the stove and watching the clock as he did every morning untilsure enough-there came Brandon from around the corner, head bent forward and down, hands ground deeply in pockets, legs passing each other in perfect strides; all done in a way as though in struggle against an onslaught of rain that had subsided minutes before. His figure was not aged for his forty-eight years although his hair, under a costly grey homburg now, was sparse.

"Hi, Mr. Brandon." Both men

one

smiled together, a smile that belonged to the greeting. Bert had used that address years ago; having begun as a witticism it took on the mellowness of an effectionate and special hello.

"Got my paper yet, Bert?" "Right here, Mr. Brandon. Been saving it for you for weeks."

Brandon chuckled quickly, his wide lips curling pleasantly around a third set of teeth. "Anything new besides this murder stuff?"

Bert pushed his cap back with his forearm and shook his head. "Gosh, Mr. Brandon, I get a new one of these everyday. I'm not gonna take and study each one before I sell it."

Brandon chuckled again, patting Bert roughly on his round back. "A good salesman knows his product backwards and forward before he attempts to sell it," he said.

With an attempt to conceal amusement, Bert said, "I can give you a rough idea of the events. There's been one or two robberies, suicide or two maybe, and . . ."

“I don't see how you do it, Bert,” Brandon said. "Don't you get tired?”

Bert contracted his shoulders in an effort to form a shrug which was always incomplete. "Like anything else, I guess. But I have a faith in the city." He pursued with utmost gravity: "She's more beautiful than a woman, richer than money, and a damned sight steadier than both."

Brandon nodded; pursed his lips so that the vertical lines above his top lip deepened. It was the kind of expression made to check a more revealing one.

"I can trust her. And I'm not gonna turn from her now," Bert said.

Brandon laughed: a long enormous wheeze. It had the crepitant sound of burning like a fuse and Bert had his head cocked in expectation of an explosion of laughter but it was always just a dud.

"Remember, Bert? When I was

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