"But the rough men—they had no effect on you," he said, almost pleadingly. "What effect could they have?"
"I was very young. Even at school I had not forgotten their oaths. My uncle sent me to school. He was a poor man, but he sent me."
"Didn't he run a hotel at one time?" he asked.
"Yes, out in Dakota. I worked for him between terms. There were many Norwegians about, and I learned English slowly. But this is of no interest to you."
"Yes, it is—the keenest sort of interest. I mean I like to hear it. What became of your uncle?"
"He is a gripman on a cable train in the city. One of these days I am going to pay him back. And I am going to pay Mrs. Goodwin, too. I will be her companion as long as it pleases her, and then I must find work. I think I can teach drawing in the country. I could do nothing at it in town. Now, you see, I must be careful not to have any talk. I can take care of myself anywhere, in a potato field or in the woods, but I must not distress Mrs. Goodwin. This is the road."
"Wait a moment. I feel more at liberty to talk to you."
"Now that you find out that I have been a laborer? I do not like that. I wish you had not said it."
"Wait. No, not that, but because we are more of a kind in a way—we both have an object. I am going to pay a man. That's the reason I dig in the hot sun."
"Are you so honest?"