Adamsville was locked to him. The moribund socialist movement would use his voluntary services; but he needed a livelihood. Serrano, Jensen, Mrs. Spigner, on a hurried visit, had called by; the comrades were reacting to him, though the unions held off. But Adamsville would need a scorifying industrial schooling before solidarity could come. He had lost his craving for the rôle of teacher ... even if he had been acceptable.
He must leave Adamsville. He confided this to Jensen, and the Hernandezes. "I might organize for the National Socialist Office, or do something for the New York Philanthropy Bureau."
"That's bourgeois, comrade," objected Mrs. Hernandez.
"I must make a living."
The morning's mail, a few days later, contained a curt note from Jane; his fingers tore it open with awkward haste.
"I hear that you are planning to leave Adamsville," it ran. "Even if we can't live together, I can not see you waste your possibilities, here or elsewhere. Come by and see me, before doing anything definite. I am your friend, as long as you will have me."
He hurried to the phone, pausing a moment, with hand over the transmitter, to steady his voice.
She told him he could come at once.
There was no buoyancy in his greeting. "I've made a mess of things, Jane."
"It was disgraceful," she sympathized vigorously, "raking up that old story. Pig-headed fools always turn on you."