As I came down the
street on which my father and I had lived, an anticipatory pleasure of
being recognised as a sort of returned Odysseus beat through my veins
like a drum. But no one saw me who knew me. It hurt me to come home,
unheralded.
I came to the house where I had dwelt. I pulled the bell. There was no
answer. I walked around the corner to the telegraph office. I was
overjoyed to see lean, lanky Phil, the telegraph operator, half
sleeping, as usual, over the key of his instrument.
"Hel-lo, John Gregory!" he shouted, with glad surprise in his voice.
* * * * *
He telephoned my father ... who came over from the works, running with
gladness. I was immediately taken home. I took three baths that
afternoon before I felt civilised again....
* * * * *
My father had returned to the Composite Works. I was alone in my little
room, with all my cherished books once more. They had been, I could
plainly observe, kept orderly and free of dust, against cay home-coming.
I took down my favourite books, kissing each one of them like a
sweetheart. Then I read here and there in all of them, observing all the
old passages I had marked. I lay in all attitudes. Sprawling on the
floor on my back, on my belly ... on my side ... now with my knees
crossed....
Whitman, Shakespeare, Scott, Shelley, Byron .
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