The next morning Timothy awoke to the revelation that he'd once again become one of the chosen few that contracted a cold during the summer. He had a sore throat, a pain in his head, and an inability to breathe through his nose. At least they were too poor now for him to be tormented by a doctor over such a trifle, so his moor-induced suffering would be kept at a minimum. With this darkly cheerful thought, he was able to get out of bed.
When Timothy dragged his exhausted self to the office of The Thameton Pry fueled by yet another underdone porridge breakfast, he was immediately beset by Sam, who nearly knocked him over by flinging an unwanted arm around his shoulders as soon as he stepped through the door. "You have no idea what delights are in store for us today!"
Timothy squirmed free and braced himself against the wall. "Would it really be too much for you to keep your hands off of my person?" he asked, sounding exactly as stuffy as he felt. He ignored whatever it was Sam had said, because he usually spouted a lot of nonsense and anything he said this early in the morning couldn't possibly be categorized as anything else. Besides, if Sam was preoccupied with new nonsense, maybe he'd forget the things Timothy had said yesterday.
Sam led the way to the table Timothy had used to think was safe from the dangers of social life, and plopped down on the opposite side. He looked at him expectantly, hands clasped as if he were about to pitch a business proposition. "I have got a wonderful idea that Lyman will no doubt want us to write."
Timothy sneezed and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. "And what, pray tell, does this 'wonderful idea' entail?" he asked, sitting down. He had a terrible feeling it involved him. The room was filling up, but Timothy's head was already too full of pressure for him to pay any attention to it. Keeping up with Sam was hard enough in his current state.
Sam leaned back, opened his mouth, and then frowned. "You caught a cold yesterday, didn't you?"
Timothy snorted, and blew his nose. "I thought you were going to diagnose me with jaundice. You're getting better." He glanced at the desk at the front of the room, wondering if, at the current rate of conversation, he'd hear about Sam's "wonderful idea" before Lyman started the meeting. He didn't like the turn it had taken towards yesterday's events.
Sam narrowed his eyes with the look of medical appraisal Timothy found so unnerving, but didn't pursue the subject farther. "You remember that Mr. Hund mentioned that Mr. Webb was in the room at the time of Mr. Basken's passing?"
Timothy had a vague recollection of imagining an overweight man tumbling down the stairs in a fright, round face red with the effort. He could not for the life of him remember the name of this phantom, but that must be it. Things fled his memory more quickly now than he could collect new topics to forget. If only he could forget what he wanted to, and not what he didn't. "Yes?" he prompted, half afraid of where Sam might be going with the subject.
Sam produced a folded newspaper from inside the breast of his waistcoat, positively bursting with excitement. He laid it on the table, and beneath the gaudy typescript that announced the paper as The Thameton Pry was their article, first on the inside page. "Dare murder shocks Thameton," Timothy read, a foolish little thrill running through him while he did it. The headline was a touch sensationalist, but he knew the article was factual. It covered all of two and a half closely knit columns running the length of the paper.
"So you see," Sam went on, "We're in Lyman's good books. If we could get an article from Mr. Webb's perspective, he'd love us for it."
Timothy sat back, looking at Sam closely. He couldn't figure out why Sam wanted him along, after what had happened yesterday. He'd already proven himself to be more of a liability than a help. "If Lyman gives us the article," he said, studying the tabletop, "I'd like to get some things straightened out, before we go try to get our necks broken by a possible murderer."
"What might they be?" Sam asked complacently.
Timothy swallowed hard, regretting his sore throat and everything that had caused it. His mother's prophecies regarding fresh air had an annoying habit of coming true. "If you haven't already done it, please refrain from mentioning my—leg—to Lyman," he said, wincing as he plunged into the topic. "I limp, I know, that isn't a secret. Finding employment is difficult for someone like myself, and—."
"I shall be as silent as the grave," Sam said, and Timothy had so far expected him to argue that his eyebrows shot up.
"I had supposed you would take more persuading than that," he said, and sneezed. He wasn't used to people cutting painful conversations mercifully short.
Something like amusement crinkled at the corners of Sam's eyes. "I can be reasonable."
"Can you?" Timothy snorted, fighting the bewildering urge to smile. "'Thameton man's reasonableness surprises city'—there, I've found my next article."
"How do you propose to interview yourself?" Sam asked.
For a moment Timothy stared, but this reply was so sudden and unexpected that he laughed before he could stop it—right there in the middle of the office of The Thameton Pry, surrounded by tables and typewriters and false-modest youths. More than one head turned. He hadn't thought Sam had the vinegar in him for a reply like that, and the surprise of it jolted loose the thing that had been trying to creep out for days.
"Well now," Sam said, sounding more Elesolian than ever. "That's a darn good laugh."
Timothy could not see what the state of Sam's socks had to do with the matter, but it was at that moment that Lyman started the meeting and Timothy was saved from any further conversation.
–––––––––
The culture (and personality) differences between Timothy and Sam allow for things to get lost in translation.