"Mr. Vincent's wife is sick," said George, changing the subject.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"He no work to-day; come in here for breakfast, ten minutes before you."
Vincent was a young American, twenty-one or two, whose brother I had known in college. He had not gone himself, but took a straw boss's job in the pipe mill. He had married six months before, and his wife lived with him in two rooms in Bickford Lodge—the other hotel in Bouton. We went to the movies together sometimes, and often met for supper at the Greek's.
I looked for Vincent, and found him reading the "Saturday Evening Post" in the front room.
"Elizabeth is sick," he explained. "I'm sticking around to-day."
We fell to talking mill.
"What hours do you work now?" I asked.
"Six to six."
"You get up at five."