“. . . George is to have another trial at the box-factory. They seem willing to be kind to him, but Mr. ———— says emphatically that he will not be taken back a second time. But I have confidence in him, and particularly in your influence.. . .
“I will tell you all about it when you next come up to the house. I am more grateful than you know—indeed, we all are—for your. . .”
Halloran had made a discovery. Had he been given to self-scrutiny it would have come earlier; and it would then have been a little easier to face. But this way of thinking would not help him now; it had not come earlier, it was difficult, and the question lay before him: should he make that next visit to the house or not?
He glanced up at his nickel alarm-clock and saw that it was time to go on watch; so he put on his sweater and oilskins and sou'wester, blew out his lamp and walked across the Sheridan road to the station.
It was nearly four years since he had taken care of the Davies's furnace and slept in their barn. That had been in his days of “subbing” for a crew position, and he had not been a boy even then; he had entered college at twenty-two. Since then, thanks to his salary as a surfman in the pay of the Treasury Department, he had got along rather better; he was no longer the traditional poor student. He was not ashamed of his struggles, nor especially proud of them; he was inclined to think that struggling is not in itself particularly commendable; that it is success that counts. He knew that Mrs. Davies and her daughter had followed his work with interest, and he was grateful for it. “Grateful!”—there was the word that he stuck at. For, after all, had there not been from the start an element of patronage in their kindness to him? “Kindness” another word that hurt.
Number Six was “punching” the watchman's clock that always hung just within the station door.
“Hallo,” he said to Halloran.
“Hallo.”
“Wet night.”
“Yes, rather.”