"Some doesn't," said the man, as if he disapproved exceedingly of that class. "They feed at the hash house across the street…. Hain't broke, be you?"
Bonbright understood the kindly offer implied. "Thank you—no," he said, and followed to the big wash room.
He ate his lunch from the top of a tall stool. It was not the sort of food he was accustomed to, and the coffee was far from being the sort that had been served to him in his home or in his club—but he hardly noticed it. When he was through he walked back across the street and stood awkwardly among his mates. He knew none of them.
An oldish, smallish man looked at him and at his overalls, and grinned.
"New man?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Thought them overalls wasn't long off the shelf. You done a good job, though, considerin'."
Bonbright blushed.
"Where you been workin'?"
How was Bonbright to answer? He couldn't tell the truth without shaming himself in this man's eyes, and all at once he found he greatly desired the good opinion of this workingman and of the other workingmen about him.