“Everything,” said Branagan.
“Oh, no,” replied George softly. “Next time I may win.”
Branagan’s hard blue eyes looked straight into Helm’s. Said he: “There ain’t goin’ to be no next time—fur you.”
Helm returned the gaze. “Yes, there is, Pat,” said he.
“Goin’ to make a livin’, practicin’ before Judge Powers—eh?”
“No. I’m going up the State to teach school. But I’m coming back.”
“Oh—hell,” said Pat Branagan—a jeer, but an ill-tempered one.
On his way uptown again George Helm almost walked into Eleanor Clearwater and Clara Hollister. He lifted his hat and bowed, blushing deeply. The two girls looked past him. Clara seemed unconscious that he was there; Eleanor slightly inclined her head—a cold, polite acknowledgment of the salute of a mistaken stranger.
Helm put on the frayed and frowzled top hat. His embarrassment left him. With a sweet and simple smile of apology that made the strong homely face superbly proud, he strode erectly on.