And then the bill seemed to lie there, heavy, a lead weight. It would have been different if I had managed to get it out of the box myself. You know how it is.
Money you haven't earned doesn't seem real to you.
There was something I forgot to mention so far. During the year between when I got out of the reformatory and the one when I tried to steal Brother Partridge's money, I killed a man.
It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get punished. It didn't have to be a sin in some previous life, you see.
I had gotten my first job in too long, stacking boxes at the freight door of Baysinger's. The drivers unloaded the stuff, but they just dumped it off the truck. An empty rear end was all they wanted. The freight boss told me to stack the boxes inside, neat and not too close together.
I stacked boxes the first day. I stacked more the second. The third day I went outside with my baloney and crackers. It was warm enough even for November.
Two of them, dressed like Harvard seniors, caps and striped duffer jackets, came up to the crate I was dining off.
"Work inside, Jack?" the taller one asked.
"Yeah," I said, chewing.