He looked up irritably at the sound of a step on the weedy driveway,
then his eyes snapped with delight.
"Hullo--hullo! what's this?"
"I had to come back, grandfather," Sam said.
"Well! Well!" said Benjamin Wright, his whole face wrinkling with
pleasure. "'Had to come back?' Money gave out, I suppose? Sit down,
sit down! Hi, Simmons! Damn that nigger. Simmons, here's Master Sam.
What have you got for supper? Well, young man, did you get some sense
knocked into you?" He was trembling with eagerness. Marlowe, in worm-
eaten calf, dropped from his hand to the porch floor. Sam picked the
book up, and sat down.
"If you wanted some more money, why the devil didn't you say so?"
"I had money enough, sir."
"Well--what about the drama?" his grandfather demanded.
"He said it was no good."
"Who said it was no good?" Mr. Wright pulled off his hat, fiercely,
and began to chew orange-skin. Sam, vaguely turning over the leaves of
the book upon his knee, mentioned the name of a publisher. "Fool!"
said Benjamin Wright; "what does he know? Well; I hope you didn't
waste time over him. Then who did you send it to?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody! What did you do with it?"
"Oh, tore it up," Sam said patiently.
His grandfather fell back in his chair, speechless, A moment later, he
told Sam he was not only a fool, but a d-"Supper's ready, suh," said Simmons. "Glad you're back, Master Sam. He
ain't lookin' peart, suh?" Simmons added confidentially to Mr. Wright.
"Well, you get some of that Maderia--'l2," commanded the old man,
pulling himself up from his chair. "Sam, you are a born idiot, aren't
you? Come and have some supper. Didn't I tell you you might have to
try a dozen publishers before you found one who had any sense? Your
experience just shows they're a fool lot. And you tore up your
manuscript! Gad-a-mercy!" He grinned and swore alternately, and banged
his hat on to his head so that his ears flattened out beneath the brim
like two red flaps.
They sat down at either end of the dining-room table, Simmons standing
at one side, his yellow eyes gleaming with interested affection and
his fly-brush of long peacock feathers waving steadily, even when he
moved about with the decanter.
"I had to come back," Sam repeated, and drank his glass of '12 Maderia
with as much appreciation as if it had been water.