“Heavy?” asked Bill, without volunteering to take his turn carrying it.
“No,” said Tommy, “but I wish I was carrying a dinner-pail like yours.”
“I'll swap,” said Bill, stopping.
“Oh no; I mean I'd like to feel I belonged in the shop.”
“With the clothes you've got on?” said Bill.
“I can't afford to get any other clothes just yet.”
“You might save those for Sunday.”
“No money,” said Tommy, and they walked on.
He was aware that he was talking and acting like a little boy with a new toy. But, on the other hand, he was very glad to find that the world was not the monster he had feared. There was no need to be perennially on your guard against all your fellow-men. They seemed willing enough to take you for what you frankly acknowledged you were. And the consciousness was not only a great relief, but a great encouragement, by obviating the necessity of fighting with another man's weapons, as happens when a man is trying to be what he thinks you want him to be.
They arrived at the boarding-place, a neat little frame house, commonplace as print and as easy to read.