Dangerous Interlude

"Shoeshine, mister?" called one of those little, scruffy figures as Lucius emerged from Hazen's lunch.

Now Lucius was wearing a new bow tie--Ivy Tartan, the salesman had called it--and the question rather flattered him. Usually Lucius never tended his appearance, but today was Mother's birthday, and it seemed special. (That was why he'd eaten out.)

"Uh, sure, sure, why not," he replied, with unfamiliar authority.

"Wanta get your foot up on the box?" urged the boy as he eyed Lucius' aging Indian Tread cordovans. "Awful lotta books you got there."

"Work . . . rereading . . . have to keep ahead," apologized Lucius uneasily as his eyes, unused to the bright light outdoors, watered gently behind their unbreakables.

"Next pad, buddy."

Lucius shuffled and raised his right foot. Just then Miss Schroeder came into view. (She occupied the next alcove on the third level, and he'd had his eye on her for months. One day while she was having lunch he had gone right into her cubicle and learned her name from her books. She had small handwriting. And then he had left everything just as it was, and never said anything. Sometimes he'd stop working and just watch the back of her hair net.) This was too good to miss now, having her see him right there getting a shoeshine.

But by the time he got set to cough it was too late. She had gone on by and the shine was all over. The boy retied his laces, and just as he did the right one, it broke in his hand.

"Guess I'll fix you with some new strings, fifteen cents."

"Fift . . . uh, no, here," Lucius returned counting out the money for the shine. Rallying slowly, he tied a double knot in his laces and trundled with relief to the stacks.