Kitabı oku: «Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd», sayfa 12

3

The next morning Henry – stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little now and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously – breakfasted with Humphrey at Stanley’s.

People – some people – spoke to him. But he winced at every greeting. Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with self-consciousness. But he held his head up pretty well.

He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he hadn’t mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn’t mention it. He spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis Stevenson, for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley’s. And then he brought up Bob McGibbon’s theory that even with a country weekly, if you made your paper interesting enough you would get readers and the readers would bring the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought it would work out. ‘It’s important to me, you know, Hump. I’ve got a cool thousand up on the Gleaner. It’s like betting on Bob McGibbon’s idea to win.’ His voice trembled a little. There were volcanoes of feeling stirring within the boy. He would erupt of course, sooner or later. Humphrey found the experience moving to the point of pain.

When he entered the Gleaner office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought.

He found occasion to say, later: —

‘Henry, how are you taking this thing?’

Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with an expressive gesture and raised his eyes.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘all right. I – it’s not true, Bob. Not about me.’

‘That’s just what I tell ‘em,’ said McGibbon eagerly. ‘What you going to do? Go right on?’

‘Well – why, yes! I can’t run away.’

‘Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the paper. That’s what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little pictures of life-like George Ade’s stuff in the Record. Or a bit of the ‘Gene Field touch. Something they’d have to read. Make the Gleaner known. Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That’s what we really need from you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception to-night at the Jenkins’. Anybody can cover that. I’ll go myself.’

Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head.

‘No,’ said he, after a pause, ‘I’ll cover it.’

McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. Here, for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his pen.

It would be walking into the lion’s den, that was all. He wished he could think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. The Gleaner, just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what McGibbon called the ‘Old Cinch.’ Without quite enough evidence, they were now virtually accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others of connivance. Mr Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, solid, a supporter of all good things’. Though Boice and Waterhouse were unknown to local society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses and their crowd. They all regarded the Gleaner as a scurrilous, libellous sheet, and McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village life. And there was another trouble; very recent. He couldn’t speak of it with the boy in this state of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn’t see his way… And now, with the realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a decade piled freshly on the paper’s bad name. But he couldn’t think of a way to keep him from going. The boy was, in a way, his partner. There were little delicacies between them.

Henry went.

The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William M. Watt, was the most important social event of the summer.

The Jenkins’s home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light at every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree about the lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front steps to the horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting the ladies from their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even remarked in undertones, that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty thick, even considering that it was the first really public appearance of the Watts in Sunbury.

The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt Currency Act, of fifteen years back… In those days his fame had overspread the boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California and the Mexican border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill nearly split a nation in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in the earlier nineties, he had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which he regained until his rather surprising marriage with the very rich, extremely vigorous American woman from abroad who called herself the Comtesse de la Plaine. At the time of his disappearance from public life various reasons had been dwelt on. One was drink. His complexion – the part of it not covered by his white beard – might have been regarded as corroborative evidence. But it was generally understood that he was ‘all right’ now; a meek enough little man, well past seventy, with an air of life-weariness and a suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in church. His slightly unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving his face a twisted appearance. On his occasional appearances about the streets he was always chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing generation he was a mildly historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James G. Blaine.

Mrs Watt – who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought the Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached firmly to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, ‘Madame’ – was a head taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked nose and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of commanding presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally raised questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her earlier title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the refinements of a lady – it was whispered among the younger people that she swore at her servants – still, a rich countess, married to the self-effacing but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature of things, equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths.

But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned was the Madame’s niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school in the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first time.

Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies, Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely – Cicely Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult to pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself was rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was slimly pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way of speaking and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, more than was common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French theory. The quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike was her sensitive responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She would listen in her eager way; then talk, all vivacity – head and hands moving, on the brink of a smile-every moment – then seem suddenly to recede a little, as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as if a delicate courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly listener. She could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she had read books that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly – though nothing so complex was plain to Henry at this period – she was a girl of delicate nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could be stirred to almost naïve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly hurt.

Henry had seen her – once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with Mary Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train, once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The sight of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of her – tantalisingly indistinct mental visions – during the late night hours between staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible wholly to escape bitterness over the thought that he hadn’t met her. He oughtn’t to care. He couldn’t admit to himself that it mattered. A couple of years back, in his big days, they would have met all right. First thing. Everybody would have seen to it. They would have told her about him. Now… oh well!

He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for the first time he began to see that the thing couldn’t be rushed at. It might take years to build up a new good name – years of slights and sneers, of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that emotional climaxes pass.

He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, to move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up – ‘Wearing everything they’ve got!’ he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit and straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn’t a guest; just the representative of a country weekly.

By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to many chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair in his heart, that he couldn’t mount those steps. Nearly everybody there would know him. He couldn’t do it.

He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward the steps. A third joined them; a girl.

‘Here,’ said this girl – Mary Ames’s voice – ‘you two wait here. I’ll find her.’

Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very white, curiously breathless.

The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip away. New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He stepped off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking.

The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn’t know what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, shifting his feet.

Henry thought: ‘Has he heard yet? Does he know?.. Does she know?’

Then Alfred’s wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief.

‘Oh, hallo. Hen;’ he said. Then, after a long silence, ‘Like you to meet Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.’

Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl’s name first or the man’s.

But he hadn’t heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, it would be almost better…

Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name.

He had to step forward too.

In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way.

In responsive confusion she raised hers.

But his had dropped.

Hers moved downward as his came up again.

She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly.

He took it. He didn’t know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous clasp.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. He liked her voice. ‘You write, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ said he huskily, ‘I write some.’

She didn’t know.

He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the old days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging.

Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers.

‘Do you write stories?’ she asked politely.

‘I try to, sometimes. It’s awfully hard.’

‘Oh yes, I know.’

‘Do you write?’

‘Why – oh no! But I’ve wished I could. I’ve tried a little.’

So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the weather. It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. He saw, felt, the presence of a girl unlike any he had known – slimly pretty, alive with a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, and felt, a white tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy fire in them.

Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the sight of them, Alfred drifted away again.

‘Perhaps,’ she added shyly, ‘you’d bring some of your stories.’

‘I haven’t anything I could bring,’ he replied, still with that burning look. ‘Nothing ‘that’s any good. If I had…’ Then this blazed from him in a low shaky voice: ‘You haven’t heard what they’re saying about me. I can see that. If you had you wouldn’t ask me to call.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I would,’ she murmured, greatly confused.

‘You wouldn’t. You really couldn’t. But I want to say this – quick, before they come!’ – for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway – ‘I’ve got to say it! They’ll tell you something about me. Something dreadful. It isn’t true. It – is – not true!’

‘She isn’t in there,’ said Mary, joining them. Then ‘Oh!’ She looked at Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, ‘How do you do!’ in a voice that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, ignoring him: ‘We’d better tell them.’ And moved a step toward the group under the lanterns.

Cicely hesitated.

It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry couldn’t speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain.

Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back.

The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way.

Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins – tall, really good-looking in his perfect-fitting evening clothes – stood before them.

He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct.

‘All right,’ said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, ‘we’ll go without her. She won’t mind.’

Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand.

‘Do come,’ she said, with a quick little smile. ‘And bring the stories. I’m sure I’d like them.’

She went with them, then.

Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered alone among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing uncontrollably.

It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down to the Gleaner office.

5

The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A.

But there was a light in the windows of the Gleaner office, over Hemple’s.

McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand sprawling through his straight ragged hair.

Henry acknowledged his partner’s greeting with a grunt; dropped down at his own desk; plunged at the story.

McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good deal.

‘There,’ said Henry, finally, with a grim look – ‘there’s the reception story.’

‘Oh, all right.’ McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat on the edge of the table beside Henry’s desk.

‘Haven’t got some good filler stuff?’ he queried wearily, brushing a hand across his forehead. ‘We’re going to have a lot of extra space this week.’

He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead.

‘The fact is,’ he remarked, ‘they’ve landed on us. Pretty hard. The advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It’s a sort of boycott, apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called my note – that two hundred and forty-eight – for paper. Simply charged it up against our account. Pretty dam’ high-handed, I call it!’

His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor.

‘They’re showing fight,’ he ran on. ‘We’ve got to lick ‘em. That’s my way – start at the drop of the hat. What’s a little advertising! Get readers – that’s the real trick of it. We’ll lick ‘em with circulation, that’s what we’ll do!’

He stood over Henry’s desk; even pounded it. The boy didn’t seem to get it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No money sense whatever!

‘Henry,’ he was crying now, ‘it’s up to you. You’re a genius. It’s sheer waste to use you on fool receptions. Write, man! WRITE! Let yourself go. Anything – sketches, verse, stories! Let’s give ‘em what they don’t look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington Hawkeye and that fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have heard of if Kipling hadn’t written prose and verse to fill in, here and there. He was a kid, too. There’s always, somewhere, a little paper that’s famous because a man can write. Why shouldn’t it be us! Us! Right up here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old Gleaner known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where’ll old Weston be! Where’ll these little two-bit advertisers be!’

He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now; slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, ‘I’m tired. Guess I’d better get along;’ and walked out.

McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open.

6

Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. He was tingling with excitement. He couldn’t move slowly. His fists were clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight.

He was thinking hopelessly, ‘I must relax.’

He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey’s lathes, belts, benches of tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There were large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering with for a long time. Three years, he had once said.

Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams of moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that machine. He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in the universe. Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. People didn’t succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, tireless current that swept them ever backward.

Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; or nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom walls upstairs. His daily work at the Voice office was just a grind, to keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. Hump was patient.

‘Until I moved in here,’ Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive sort of’ bitterness, ‘and brought girls and things. He doesn’t have his nights and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.’

He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room.

He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white.

There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned up at the ends, mocked him.

‘I’ll shave it off,’ he said aloud.

He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it.

He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks.

Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that.

He put the razor back in its drawer.

In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he said: —

‘I’ll face them. I’ll go down fighting. They shan’t say I surrendered.’

He walked round and round the room.

He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A restlessness that wouldn’t permit him so much as to sit down.

While in the Gleaner office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon. He certainly hadn’t listened to him.

But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding his desk. Talking – talking – full of fresh hopes while the world crumbled around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old globe as it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!.. The advertisers had at last combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon’s note. That must have taken about the last of Henry’s thousand. They were broke.

His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must have thrust it back there absently, at the office.

He drew it out and gazed at it.

It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at the top, and his name. He couldn’t see what the title was. Yet it was there, and it was good.

His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There was a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and drove him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and wander at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore – walk all night – or he must sit down and write.

He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey’s and wrote on his lap. And he wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, in a fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up a little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead and temples, then on his cheeks.

When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture, writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the room. He didn’t hear his friend come up the stairs.’ When he saw him, standing, looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly’: —

‘Don’t Hump!’

Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a ‘Don’t what?’

‘Go on! Don’t disturb me!’

‘You seem to be hitting it up.’

‘I am. I can’t talk! Please – go away! Go to bed. You’ll make me lose it!’

Humphrey obeyed.

Later – well along in the night – he awoke.

There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. It was quarter to three.

‘Here!’ he called. ‘What on earth are you up to, Hen?’ A chair scraped. Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, and his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the two ends and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down over his forehead.

‘Do you know what time it is, Hen?’

‘No. Say – listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I did about the Business Men’s Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta grown out of it. It’s just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! There’s a title for the book.’

‘For the what!’

‘The book. Oh, there’ll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe they’re stories. I can’t tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, that’s good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me all at once – to-night! – Queer, isn’t it! – thinking about the folks along the street – Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop – Schultz and Schwartz’s – and Donovan’s soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that’s been in the British Mounted Police in Mashonaland – think of it! In Africa – and – ’

‘Would you mind’ – Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes – ‘would you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can’t – ’

‘All right, Hump. Only I’m excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me that there’s as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in Kipling’s Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people’s lives go. And what old Berger’s really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables were picked yesterday.’

Humphrey gazed – wider awake now – at the wild figure before him. And a thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed.

‘How much have you done?’ he asked soberly.

‘Most finished this first one. It’s about old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse and Mr Weston – ’

‘Gee!’ said Humphrey.

‘I call it, The Caliph of Simpson Street.’

‘Well – see here, you’re going to bed, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. But listen.’ And he began reading aloud.

Humphrey waved his arms.

‘No, no! For heaven’s sake, go to bed, Hen!’

‘Well, but – oh, say! Just thought of something!’ And he went out, chuckling.

Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that was not altogether of the sun.

The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a dream.

He sprang out of bed.

There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying.

He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, apparently out of sheer happiness.

‘Say,’ he cried, ‘listen to this! It’s one I call, The Cauliflowers of the Caliph. Oh, by the way, I’ve changed the title of the book to Satraps of the Simple.

‘The whole book’ll be sort of imaginary, like that. It’s queer. Just as if it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. Only everything I ever knew’s going into it. Things I’d forgotten.’

‘Hen,’ said Humphrey, ‘are you stark mad?’

‘Me? Why – why no, Hump!’ The grin was a thought sheepish now. ‘But – well, Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.’

‘How many stories have you written already?’

‘Just three.’

‘Three! In one night!’

‘But they’re short, Hump. I don’t believe-they average over two or three thousand words. I think they’re good. You know, just the way they made me feel. Funny idea – Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.’

‘One thing’s certain, Hen. You’re an extremely surprising youth, but right here’s where you quit. I don’t propose to have a roaring maniac here in the rooms. On my hands.’

‘Oh, Hump, I can’t quit now! You don’t understand. It’s wonderful. It just comes. Like taking dictation.’

‘Dictation is what you’re going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up your clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We’ll go out for some breakfast.’

‘Not now, Hump! Wait – I promise I’ll go out a little later.’

‘You’ll go now. Get up.’

Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again.

‘Gosh!’ he murmured.

‘Stiff, eh?’

‘I should smile. And sorta weak.’

‘No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast you’ll go straight to bed.’

‘Hump, I can’t.’

This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn’t.

He stopped in at Jackson’s Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones’s) and bought paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he bought penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a bronze dog seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half a dozen pads of a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), a round glass paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four boxes of wire clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb’s Synonyms. Then he saw an old copy of The Thousand and One Nights and bought that.

It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he went out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters.

And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often fatal words: —

‘Just charge it, if you don’t mind.’