Nut Street, talking.

As he came up to them, Sanders turned a face clouded with passion on
Fairfax.

"You cursed hound!" he growled under his breath, and struck out, but
before he could reach Fairfax Molly threw herself on Sanders and caught
the blow on her arm and shoulder. In spite of her courage she cried out
and would have fallen but for Fairfax. The blow, furiously directed by
an able-bodied man, had done worse work than Sanders intended, and the
poor girl's arm hung limp and she fainted away.

"Mother of God," muttered Sanders, "I have killed you, Molly darling!"

Her head lay on Fairfax's shoulder. "Let's get her into the coffee
house," he said shortly.

Sanders was horrified at the sight of the girl he adored lying like
death from his blow, and with a determination which Fairfax could not
thwart the engineer took the girl in his own arms.

"Give her to me," he said fiercely, "I'll settle with you later. Can't
take her into the coffee house: they've turned her out on account of
you. There's not a house that would take her but the hotel. I'm going to
carry her to my mother."

Followed by a little group of people whom Fairfax refused to enlighten,
they went down the street, and Sanders disappeared within the door of
the shanty where his family lived.

The incident gave Antony food for thought, and he chewed a bitter cud as
he shut himself into his room. He couldn't help the girl's coming to him
in his illness. He could have sent her about her business the first day
that he was conscious. She would not have gone. She had lost her place
and her reputation, according to Sanders, because of her love for him.
There was not any use in mincing the matter. That's the way it stood.
What should he do? What could he do?

He took off his heavy overcoat and muffler, rubbed his hands, which were
taking on their accustomed dirt and healthy vigour, poured out a glass
of milk from the bottle on his window sill, and drank it, musing. The
Company had acted well to him. The paymaster was a mighty fine man, and
Antony had won his interest long ago. They had advanced him a month's
pay on account of his illness. He brushed his blonde hair meditatively
before the glass, settled the cravat under the low rolling collar of his
flannel shirt. He was a New York Central fireman on regular duty, no
further up the scale than Molly Shannon--as far as Nut Street and the
others knew. Was there any reason why he should not marry her? She ha