Every evening for almost a
week he had taken the walk, and every evening and at almost the same spot
he turned back. He was disgusted and angry with himself and went to his
shop, walking in the middle of the road and kicking up clouds of dust.
People passed along the path under the trees at the side of the road and
turned to stare at him. A workingman with a fat wife, who puffed as she
walked at his side, turned to look and then began to scold. "I tell you
what, old woman, I shouldn't have married and had kids," he grumbled. "Look
at me, then look at that fellow. He goes along there thinking big thoughts
that will make him richer and richer. I have to work for two dollars a day,
and pretty soon I'll be old and thrown on the scrap-heap. I might have been
a rich inventor like him had I given myself a chance."
The workman went on his way, grumbling at his wife who paid no attention
to his words. Her breath was needed for the labor of walking, and as for
the matter of marriage, that had been attended to. She saw no reason for
wasting words over the matter. Hugh went to the shop and stood leaning
against the door frame. Two or three workmen were busy near the back door
and had lighted gas lamps that hung over the work benches. They did not see
Hugh, and their voices ran through the empty building. One of them, an old
man with a bald head, entertained his fellows by giving an imitation of
Steve Hunter.
Pages:
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302