“I’m only a tramp,” he said, aloud, “and I’ve known it, all along.”
He sat down by the table and took up a pencil, but no words came. Remorsefully, he wrote to an acquaintance—a man who had a book published every year and filled in the intervening time with magazine work and newspaper specials. He sealed the letter and addressed it idly, then tossed it aside purposelessly.
“Loafer!” The memory of it stung him like a lash, and, completely overwhelmed with shame, he hid his face in his hands.
Suddenly, a pair of soft arms stole around his neck, a childish, tear-wet cheek was pressed close to his, and a sweet voice whispered, tenderly: “Dear, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I can’t live another minute unless you tell me you forgive me!”
“Am I really a loafer?” asked Harlan, half an hour later.
“Indeed you’re not,” answered Dorothy, her trustful eyes looking straight into his; “you’re absolutely the most adorable boy in the whole world, and it’s me that knows it!”
“As long as you know it,” returned Harlan, seriously, “I don’t care a hang what other people think.”
“Now, tell me,” continued Dorothy, “how near are we to being broke?”
Obediently, Harlan turned his pockets inside out and piled his worldly wealth on the table.