ago.'
'Oh, yeah?' Dusty reddened. And then he checked himself. 'I mean, I know you're just trying to help me, Mr. Bascom, and I appreciate it. But-'
'I know. You've got doctor bills, your father to take care of. But you could still swing it, Bill. There's such a thing as a student loan. Scholarships. You used to talk quite a bit about them when you first came here. There are part-time jobs you could get. You'd have to do plenty of scrimping and sacrificing, but if you really wanted to-'
'I couldn't. I can't!' Dusty protested. 'Why the doctor bills alone, those and the medicines, take-'
'Doctors will wait for their money, if it's in a good cause. There's a city dispensary for people with low incomes. So' – Bascom's eyebrows rose-'what else is there? A place to sleep, something to eat. That's about the size of it, isn't it? Don't tell me you couldn't manage that in these times. You could squeeze by for a few years, long enough to get your education.'
Dusty wet his lips, hesitantly. Bascom made things sound awfully easy. If he had to do them himself, well…
'It's not that simple,' he said. 'There are plenty of things besides-'
'There always are. But there aren't many that you can't do without. No, Bill. It wouldn't be easy, not an ideal arrangement by any means. But…' His voice died. The friendliness went out of his face. 'Forget it,' he said coldly. 'Let's get back to work.'
'But I was going to say that-'
'I said to forget it,' Bascom snapped. 'You're lazy. You feel sorry for yourself. You want something for nothing. It's a waste of time talking to you. Now, call those rooms off to me, and call 'em off right.'
Dusty gulped and swallowed. Voice shaking, he resumed the calling.
The remaining three hours of the shift passed swiftly. At five-thirty, the split-watch elevator boy arrived. At six, the head baggage porter retrieved the check-room key from Dusty and began his day's duties. At seven the entire day shift came to work.
In the locker room, Dusty took another shower and changed into his street clothes. He scowled at himself in the mirror, ripped out an abrupt disgusted curse.
He's right, old Bascom's right, he thought. No wonder he doesn't have any use for me. Dad and I could manage. We – he – couldn't spend what I didn't have. He'd probably pull himself together if I went back to school, if he %new that one of us was going to amount to something. It would give him something to live for.
He finished dressing, and went out to his car. Pulling away from the curb, he gave the Hotel Manton a knowing, deprecating look. It could go to hell, the Manton could, and Marcia Hillis along with it.
FOUR
It was a shabby, rundown house, a faded-blue cottage, in a block that was barely a half-block. It was bordered on one side by a vacant lot, a hundred squarefoot jungle of weeds and Johnson grass, on the other by a crumbling brick warehouse. Facing it, across the narrow street, was a used-car lot. Dusty had rented the place shortly after his mother's death. Its chief – rather, its only – advantages were its cheapness 'and its distance, per se and socially, from the family's former neighborhood. Things had gotten pretty uncomfortable there after- his father's trouble. In this section of town, there was little chance of encountering one-time friends.
Dusty ate breakfast on the way home, and it was nearly nine when he arrived. It was 'Wednesday, one of the two days a week that the doctor called, and a black coupe, with the letters MD on the license plate, was parked in front of the house. Dusty drew up behind it, waited until the doctor came out.
Doctor Lane was a brisk, chubby man with narrowed irritable-looking eyes. He bustled out to his car, frowning impatiently when Dusty intercepted him.
'Well, he's all right,' he said brusquely. 'As good as can be expected. Incidentally, can't you spruce him up a little? Can't expect a man to feel good when he goes around like a tramp.'
'I'm doing the best I can.' Dusty flushed. 'I give him plenty of-'
'The best you can, eh?' The doctor looked him up and down. 'Better try a little harder. Or else get someone in to look after him. Should be able to afford it.'
He nodded curtly, and tossed his black-leather bag onto the seat of the car. His hand on the door, he paused and turned.
'Understand he's been having a little beer. Well, won't hurt him any. Won't do him any good, but there's damned little that will. Not enough alcohol in the slop they make these days to hurt a baby.'
'I wanted to ask you, Doctor. If it's as dangerous as you say-'
'As I say?' Doctor Lane snapped. 'Any considerable amount of alcohol will kill him. Stop his heart like that.'
'Well, don't you think it would be better – safer – if he was told-'
'No, I don't think so. If I did I'd have told him before now.' The doctor sighed wearily, obviously struggling to control his impatience. 'Don't want to alarm him. You can understand that, can't you? Not the slightest need to tell him. He's a naturally careful liver. Doesn't smoke. Goes easy on the coffee. Gets plenty of rest… By the way, he's just as well off if he doesn't eat much. Doesn't do enough to burn it up. Okay? That doesn't make you mad, does it?'
'I-' Dusty's mouth snapped shut. He stared at Lane steadily. 'Just what,' he said, 'do you mean by that?'
'Well – uh -' The doctor cleared his throat. 'No offence. I only meant that working nights, and all, it was probably difficult for you to – to -'
'I see. I thought that's what you must mean, Doctor.'
Doctor Lane laughed uneasily. 'Now – uh – I was saying about the liquor. Only danger in it I see is, uh, negative, largely negative. Know what I mean? Explaining why he shouldn't have it. Alarming him. Mustn't do that, understand? No reason to do it. He's never drunk the stuff, no reason why he should take on any fatal quantity now. If he had any money to throw away, he'd-' The doctor broke off abruptly. He cleared his throat again. 'As I was saying. My thought in warning you was that you might, with the best of intentions, urge some on him. I mean to say that, for example, you might be having some people in, and if you were drinking yourselves you'd naturally offer your father-'
'I don't drink, Doctor. I don't do any entertaining.'
'Fine. Splendid. No cause for worry, then.' Doctor Lane backed away a step. 'Anything else?'
Dusty shook his head. There had been something, but he couldn't mention it now. Perhaps he could do it later, but he was in no mood now to ask for favors from Doctor Lane now. Probably it wouldn't do any good if he did ask. If Lane thought he was so lowdown as to mistreat his own father, he'd hardly be inclined to wait indefinitely on payment for his services.
Going up' the walk to the house, Dusty guessed that he'd mismanaged the whole interview. The doctor was always cranky, ready to leap down your throat, at this hour of the morning. If he'd had to talk to him – and he might have waited until another time – he shouldn't have disputed with him, made the doctor humble himself for a curtness that was more or less normal for him.
Mr. Rhodes was seated on the living room lounge, squinting at the morning newspaper. He smiled absently at his son, and Dusty went on back to the kitchen. The coffee pot was still warm, and there was a little coffee still left in it. Dusty poured a cup, and carried it into the living room.
'Dad,' he said. Then, sharply, 'Dad! I want to talk to you.'
'Oh!' The old man laid the paper aside reluctantly. 'Go right ahead, Bill.'
'I want you to gather up all your clothes today, all your laundry. I – maybe you'd better do it right away. I'll have the stuff picked up this morning, so we can get it back tomorrow.'
'All right, son,' his father said, mildly. 'Do you want any of your things to go, too?'
'Just yours. The hotel still does mine at half price.'
Mr. Rhodes shuffled out of the room. Dusty took up a sip of coffee, and picked up the telephone. He called the laundry and cleaners. Then he consulted the telephone directory, and, swallowing the rest of his coffee called a grocery store.
He was just hanging up when his father returned. He lighted a cigarette, motioned for the old man to sit down.
'I've just ordered some groceries, Dad. They'll be delivered within the hour – twenty-three dollars and eight
