Two boys met in the Grand Central Station in New York one warm afternoon in late September and, greeting each other, passed hurriedly toward the gate beyond which the Hartford Express waited. Each was good-looking, well-built, alert and self-possessed. But a few months separated their ages, although Jack Brewton had seen his eighteenth birthday and Stuart Harven had not. In the train, their bags at their feet, they plunged into conversation. While they had been close friends at Manning School, they had not met during vacation, nor had they corresponded. At seventeen and eighteen one is far too busy for letter writing, and, fortunately, friendship doesn’t demand it. There was, consequently, m…
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