Edd Winfield Parks

THE COVER ON THE BED MOVED GENTLY, as Jack Maitland drew his head
back to escape the warm light beating upon one corner of the pillow.
A languid eye watched the minute hand move toward eight o'clock,
a languid arm went out to shut off an alarm which had not been set.

He was twenty-one. Somehow, this morning, that was not of major
importance; not as important, at least, as he had thought it yesterday
afternoon when he struggled with wording a telegram properly. I
HAVE NEITHER SMOKED NOR DRANK . . . drunk . . . drank.
Words troubled him, and both these words seemed bad, in that con-
notation.

Then his vexation definitely started; his mind flinched with embar-
rassment even at the recollection. NOR TOUCHED A WOMAN . . .
he had first written, then recoiled from the musty indirect phraseology.
Literally, it wasn't so. Remembrance of touches, halted once at least
because five hundred dollars bulked too heavy as a price to pay, shamed
him again. Why could a man not think of something pleasant, on a
day when pleasure was in order? For that telegram was distinctly some-
thing to forget, with its lame NOR YOU KNOW. LOVE.

"Two telegrams, Jack."

"Thanks, Bob." Jack allowed his suite-mate to depart, after he had
brought them to the bed, with a casualness which suggested that tele-
grams were a normal part of the day's routine.

He ripped open the first.

DEPOSITING FIVE HUNDRED YOUR CREDIT TO-
MORROW CONGRATULATIONS MAN OUR LOVE
DAD

-315-