"Say, Weyburn; when I asked you where you had been working before you came here, you didn't tell me the truth," was the way he began on me.
"I told you I had worked in a bank in Glendale," I protested; "which was and is the truth."
"I know; but you didn't tell me that you'd put in the last three years in the pen, and were out on parole."
"No, I didn't tell you that. But I would have told you if you had asked me."
"I can't stand for it," he grumbled, chewing at the unlighted cigar which was his Saturday night indulgence. "And if I could, the customers wouldn't. I suppose as many as a dozen women have been to me in the last few days. They say they can't afford to be watchin' the back door every time you come 'round with the groceries. You see how it is."
I saw; but I was still foolish enough to try to stem the pitiless tide.
"Would it make any difference if I were to say that I was as innocent of the crime for which I was convicted as any of these frightened women?" I suggested.
"They all say that," was the colorless retort. "The point is, Weyburn, that you was convicted. There ain't no gettin' 'round that. You've worn the stripes, and you'll just have to make up your mind to live it down before you can expect people to forget it."
If I hadn't been the wretched victim of this paradox it might have provoked a smile.
"How am I ever going to live it down, Mr. Bucks, if nobody will give me a chance?" I asked.