"Well," he said, "you were looking for a job, weren't you? Was that three dollars per better than nothing—or wasn't it?"
I kept still. Something was the matter, we seemed to go in a circle. Finally I said:
"Anyway, Mr. Carney, I thank you for answering me. That was a good deal to do."
He sat turning his wine-glass, one hand over his mouth.
"You do make me seem a blackguard," he said, "and yet—on my honor—if you think I have any—I didn't think I was. I didn't mean anybody any harm. Damn it all, I was just trying to find a little fun."
He looked at me. And all at once, I knew how he must have looked when he was a little boy. I could see the little boy's round eyes and full red cheeks, and the way he must have answered when he'd done something wrong. And it didn't seem to me that he'd ever grown any older. I understood him. I understood most men of his type. And I believed him. He was just blundering along in the world's horrible, mistaken idea of fun—that means death to the other one.
Before I knew it, my eyes brimmed full of tears. He saw that, and sat staring at me.