"I'll make him believe the people of the town are sore," said the teller, pensively.
As they walked to their boarding-houses up the frosty street, the two boys discussed matters.
"I feel kind of sorry for him," said Henty; "he must be a regular booze-fighter."
"Yes. I wonder did head office know it when they sent him up here?"
Henty had no idea. Being simply a junior he did not venture an opinion concerning head office. He did express himself about the unofficial Penton, however.
"I don't like him, Nelson."
"No," said Evan, "he is a mistake. I see trouble ahead for us. I can't understand why the bank sent him up here. He has evidently been used to a fast life, and there's no excitement here for him except booze."
Henty had reached his lodging. With a "good-night" and a sigh he entered the cold storage where he put in the nights.
Evan, drawing one hundred and fifty dollars a year more than the junior, went further up the hill and landed in a warmer room. He lighted a lamp and prepared to thoroughly peruse a couple of letters. They were more than a couple, they were a pair. Julia reminded him of the "perfectly lovely" times they had spent together, and Lily spoke of the "grand evenings" they had walked or driven in. The Mt. Alban girl intimated that she was without "such a friend" now, and the Creek Bend girl spoke about the scarcity of "the right kind of fellows." Both letters were a challenge for Evan to act consistently with smile or kiss bestowed in the past, and a reminder that girls do not forget so readily as bankclerks might wish.
Folding the two little love-notes together, he held them above the lamp chimney and watched them burn. He did not wear the expression of a Nero, but of an Abram offering up that which was part of himself. He was not burning sheets of paper, but leaves from his life: sheets that he declared must become ashes to him—and to them.