Target Practice

He had been in this position, puffing jerkily, for half an hour, when a knock sounded on the door. He jumped up, startled; then, remembering his purchase at the furniture store, crossed leisurely, taking the key from his pocket. But before he inserted it in the lock he called out:

“Who is it?”

Silence; then another knock.

“Who is it?” he repeated.

A well-known voice came:

“It’s I–Lora. Let me in!”

Mr. Warner felt his knees come together. He had not really expected this. He hoped the door was good and thick. Clutching the key firmly in his hand as though it were a weapon of defense, he called huskily:

“I won’t!”

“Timmie, open the door!”

“I tell you I won’t,” repeated Mr. Warner. Some of the huskiness left his voice. “I can’t, Lora. The mayor wouldn’t want me to. It wouldn’t be right. Did you bring the bag?”

“Yes. I want to give it to you.” The voice sharpened a little. “Don’t be an ass, Timmie! Open the door!”

But the brilliant Lora had made a mistake. At her confession that she had brought the bag Mr. Warner felt his heart leap with an intoxicating thrill. She had admitted to herself the possibility of defeat, then. He pressed his lips tightly together.

“If you’ve got the bag,” he said finally, between his teeth, “leave it in the hall and I’ll get it when you’re gone. I can’t let you in. I’m — I haven’t any clothes on.” This was a lie, but the poor man needed it. “Anyway,” he continued, “why should you want to come in? What do you want?”

“I want you to come home, of course.” The tone could not be called one of appeal, but neither was it that of command. “I honestly believe you need someone to look after you, Timmie. You’ve been acting queerly for weeks. Please open the door!”

“No!”

“Please!”

It was awfully hard; he could not remember that she had ever said please to him before. He gritted his teeth. “Go away!” he shouted savagely.

Silence followed for perhaps ten seconds; on the part of Mr. Warner, a breathless silence. Then came a sound as of something heavy dropped on the floor outside, and retreating footsteps. He ran to the window and looked out, and saw his wife cross the sidewalk and enter her car at the curb. The car started forward with a jerk and disappeared down Main Street. Mr. Warner dropped into a chair as one exhausted.

A little later he went into the hall and got the bag, which he found outside the door. Soon after that the cot came, and he put it up in a corner and went to bed, to dream strange dreams.