Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: “You're young and a tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the way to do somethin'.—I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've just got to get down and do it.”
“I've told you I had nothing to do,” I retorted angrily; “that's the truth. Perhaps” (sarcastically) “this work chooses me.”
The Sheriff moved away from the door.
On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At that hour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but now it seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round the entrance to Locock's office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tipped up against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who sold fruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few were seated on the edge of the side-walk, with their feet in the dust of the street. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figure of Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriff's buggy.
“Good morning,” I said in the air, but no one answered me. Mastering my irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin, divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him, he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:
“Shoot off a joke quick. The boys'll let up on you then. It'll be all right. Say somethin', for God's sake!”
The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart; the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of my self-confidence returned:
“I never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour can't be produced to order.”
He fastened up the hitching-strap, while I gathered the reins together and got into the buggy. When I was fairly seated he stepped to the side of the open vehicle, and, holding out his hand, said, “Good day,” adding, as our hands clasped, “Wade in, young un; wade in.”
“Good day, Martin. Good day, Sheriff. Good day, boys!”