"Yes, sir," Landor said.

"That's all, then, Phillips. You can go home now."

After Phillips had closed the door, after they had heard his footsteps fade down the hall, heard the heavy outer door thunder shut, and glimpsed him slouching away across the lawn, disconsolate in the sun, Morton turned to Landor. He did not smile.

"You must learn to trust those you love and who love you, Bobby. Oh, I'm not angry. You're young, and we all make mistakes when we're young. But believe me, if ever I should do such a thing as Phillips claimed, I'll certainly have told you first."

"But you won't do it, though," Landor said.

"No." Morton smiled. "I won't do it."

But when he came home from vespers Phillips was a small, portly shadow on the night porch. The voice at his elbow was a piping whine.

"Mr. Morton-"

"What do you want, Phillips? It's late. What are you doing here?” He thrust the key into the lock.

"Would you really lose your job if Landor told?"

"I'd never be able to get another job anywhere. Such lies are vicious things, Phillips."

"What if I told?"

"You have nothing to tell, Phillips."

"But what if I went ahead anyway, just lied-"

Morton wrenched the door open. The smell of the house came out to him, familiar, reassuring. But he did not step inside.

"Suppose," he said, looking down at the vague moon of Phillips' face, the lenses of the glasses glinting in the faint light of the streetlamp, "suppose I were to give you the cigarette case? Is that what you want?"

Phillips shook his head mutely.

"Well, then, for God's sake," Morton said, "what do you want?"

"I want," Phillips said in a very small voice, "what I told Landor you gave me the cigarette case for."

"You"

"And if you don't, I'll say you did anyway, Mr. Morton. I'll tell. And you'll lose your job, sir. You'll be destroyed. That's what you said, wasn't it? Destroyed?"

Morton struck him across the face. The glasses went flying and the boy sprawled, a lumpy heap of darkness. Morton heard the intake of his breath. He was going to bawl. Morton crouched over him and shook him.

"No," he commanded, "don't cry. I'm sorry I struck you, Phillips. I lost my temper. Come on." He helped him up. "You'd better come inside. With me.

VRIENDSCHAP

Monthly magazine in Dutch; photos and drawings, also articles about women. $4. yearly.

Postbox 542, Amsterdam, Holland.