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TOMMY COOK was, Ken thought, heaven-sent. Every man needs a companion. It isn't good to be lonely. Tommy's interest in him was so warm, so obviously sincere, that he could be trusted with confidences. He could help Ken regain lost ambition; he could keep Ken on the straight and narrow path to success.

Thus Ken defended his choice of Tommy as his friend. The train, swiftly traveling east, bore him toward New York. Each milestone renewed memories, recalled emotions. His dream of relentless adherence to a set plan for success on the stage faltered before the impending reality. He turned to Tommy, to small talk, to laughter, in order to avoid increasing doubt, Tommy would help him. The boy's eyes were worshipful. He gazed at Ken admiringly, following Ken's every word with rapt attention. Willingly he assumed the relationship of a faithful slave. "Don't bother—let me do it," he would say. And Ken, glowing before an appreciative audience, would agree.

In contrast to Joe Durazzo, who was dull and heavy-witted, Tommy was golden, pink, cherubic. His eyes shone. His skin was sprinkled with golden down. His naivete was flavored with ingenuous wit, seasoned with sparkling spice. Obscenity came easily to his tongue, delivered with such nonchalance that Ken was delighted. And the boy's repertory of shocking doggerel and scathing songs seemed endless. Amusing, pleasing, he was, Ken knew. And he could