Swarms of workingmen, most of them
strangers, had come into Main Street from the factories by the railroad
tracks. They stood in groups in lower Main Street by Wymer's tobacco store.
Some of them had gone into Ben Head's saloon for a glass of beer and came
out wiping their mustaches. The men who were digging the sewer, foreign
men, Italians he had heard, sat on the banks of dry earth in the middle of
the street. Their dinner pails were held between their legs and as they ate
they talked in a strange language. He remembered the day he had come to
Bidwell with his bride, the girl he had met on his trade journey and who
had waited for him until he had mastered his trade and had a shop of his
own. He had gone to New York State to get her and had arrived back in
Bidwell at noon on just such another summer day. There had not been many
people about, but every one had known him. On that day every one had been
his friend. Birdie Spinks rushed out of his drug store and had insisted
that he and his bride go home to dinner with him. Every one had wanted them
to come to his house for dinner. It had been a happy, joyous time.
The harness maker had always been sorry his wife had borne him no children.
He had said nothing and had always pretended he did not want them and now,
at last, he was glad they had not come. He went back to his bench and to
work, hoping Jim would be late in getting back from lunch.
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