Thus meditating, he jostled against a group of men who were coming from a saloon. All but one wore the typical black clothes and derby hats of the workman's best attire; one had on a loose-fitting, English tweed suit. In this latter person Sommers was scarcely surprised to recognize Dresser. The big shoulders of the blond-haired fellow towered above the others; he was talking excitedly, and they were listening. When they started to cross the street, Sommers touched Dresser.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded abruptly.
"What are you doing? You had better get out of town along with your rich friends." He motioned sneeringly at the bag in Sommers's hand.
"I fancied you might be up to something of this kind," Sommers went on, unheeding his sneer.
"I had enough of that job of faking up text-books and jollying schoolteachers. So I chucked it."
"Why did you chuck me, too?"
"I thought you might be sick of having me hang about, and especially now that I am in with the other crowd."
"That's rot," Sommers laughed. "However, you needn't feel it necessary to apologize. What are you doing with 'the other crowd'?"
"I'm secretary of the central committee," Dresser replied, with some importance.
"Oh, that's it!" Sommers exclaimed.
"It's better than being a boot-licker to the rich."