Free So Little Time by John P. Marquand

work on plays for a living. I’d give it all up if I’d written World Assignment .”
    â€œOh, no, you wouldn’t,” Walter said. “When did you read it, Jeff?”
    Jeffrey hesitated again before he answered.
    â€œI haven’t read it yet, but I’m going to. You see all the boys are writing books now, and it’s hard to read them all.”
    He had Walter there, but he could not tell whether Walter knew it. Walter had risen. He hurried to the secretary.
    â€œIf you haven’t read it,” he said, “it’s time you did. Let me give you a copy, Jeff.”
    â€œNo,” Jeffrey said, “that isn’t fair. I always buy friends’ books.”
    â€œOh, no,” Walter said. “What’s thirty cents in royalties? Here, take one, Jeff.” He paused. “Actually, it’s thirty-seven-and-a-half cents now.” He pulled out his fountain pen. “I’ll sign it,” he said.
    â€œWhy, thanks,” Jeffrey said. “That’s nice of you, Walter.”
    Walter looked up quickly from the flyleaf of World Assignment .
    â€œSay,” Walter said, “you know your way around, don’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Jeffrey answered, “yes—slightly, Walter.”
    â€œJeff—” Walter’s voice had a different note—“are you in Who’s Who ?”
    Jeffrey leaned back and reached very slowly for his glass as though some sudden movement might break the spell.
    â€œYes,” Jeffrey said, “I’m in Who’s Who , Walter.”
    â€œThey sent me the form last week,” Walter said. “Jeff, do you know what I’m thinking?”
    â€œNo,” Jeffrey answered. “What, Walter?”
    â€œI was thinking—” there was a new ring in Walter’s voice—“you and I are the only ones from back home who are in Who’s Who in America !”
    It had been a long while since Jeffrey had considered anything of such proportion. It reminded him of one spring night when he had turned the corner into 57th Street and had seen a row of elephants walking westward apparently by themselves, each holding another’s tail.
    â€œMy God,” Jeffrey said, “so that’s it.”
    From Walter there came an aura, a warm triumphant glow that made Jeffrey wonder whether all triumphs were not the same and whether the solace which anyone derived from them might not be based upon some half-forgotten slight. When you thought of it in those terms, Walter Newcombe might be egregious, but not preposterous. You could imagine him carrying his past with him through every change of scene seeking blindly for some personal sort of vindication.
    â€œJeff,” Walter asked, “how’s everything back there?”
    It was unnecessary to ask Walter what he meant—it was like looking at blurred shapes on a picture screen, just as someone adjusted the lens, snapping every image into instantaneous focus.
    â€œI haven’t been in Bragg for quite a long while,” Jeffrey said.
    â€œPa and Ma are still there,” Walter said. Momentarily his veneer had cracked. His hair seemed yellower and longer and his nose more shiny.
    â€œYour father—” Walter hesitated. “Is he still there?”
    â€œNo,” Jeffrey said, “he’s dead.” It was uncomfortable, not suitable, wandering through the past with Walter Newcombe.
    â€œHe was a lovely person,” Walter said, “very lovely.”
    The characterization made Jeffrey wince, and he did not answer.
    â€œWhat happened to the house on Lime Street?” Walter asked.
    â€œWe sold it,” Jeffrey said.
    â€œWho bought it?” Walter asked.
    â€œJimmy Ryan,” Jeffrey said.
    â€œJesus,” Walter said, “Jimmy Ryan.”
    His exclamation was not profanity, but rather a tribute to decline.
    â€œWhat happened to Ethel?” Walter asked. “Did she get