“Yes,” replied the other, “too stuck up to accept congratulations from ordinary every-day chaps like us. Well, the next time he may congratulate himself, but you can safely depend upon it that I won’t run the risk of another such snub from him.”
As Myles went down stairs he thought he might as well collect his week’s salary, and stepped into the cashier’s office to do so. The usual little brown envelope was handed to him, and he put it into his pocket without stopping to open it there.
Arrived at his own room he locked the door and gave way to his grief, mortification, and anger. Nobody ever had such hard luck as he; nobody was ever so shamefully treated. Mr. Haxall was a monument of injustice and tyranny. How he hated him! How he hated everybody! Thus he raved to himself as he paced furiously up and down the narrow limits of his room.
Thus an hour was passed, and still the tumult raged. He was desperate. He knew not which way to turn, and could see no hope in any direction. Should he go home? Should he stay in the city and try for other work, or should he fly to some distant part of the country where he was unknown, and begin all over again? Each of these plans was rejected as soon as thought of. He could not go home and change their hope and pride in him to shame and sorrow. No; he loved them too dearly for that. There was no use in trying for a position on any other city paper. The story of his disgrace would bar every office door. He could not go to a distant city and start anew because he had no money with which to travel. He had his week’s pay, to be sure; but how far would such a pitiful sum take him? Hardly thinking of what he did he opened the little brown envelope. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor. It was the order on the cashier for the money he had drawn to pay his expenses on his recent trip. As he had rendered no account of these expenses, and as the sum thus drawn was far in excess of his week’s salary, the cashier was obliged to charge the full amount to him and withhold the salary as partial payment.
This last blow was too much. Myles flung himself on his bed and buried his face in the pillows. How long he lay there, utterly forsaken, prostrated, and hopeless, he never knew; but he was finally aroused by a knock at his door.
He felt that he could not see anybody then, and did not answer it. He hoped whoever it was would believe him to be out and go away; but the knock was repeated.
“Who is it?” he called, in a gruff tone.
“It is I, Myles; your Sister Kate. Why don’t you open the door?”