unning, or, rather, in his
own running so neither God nor man can get him out of it. You know
the time that last strike was on he was in the gutter every day, when
he could beg enough money to keep him there. Now, we can't have that
sort of thing. When a man's got so he can't work nor fight neither,
why, he's up against it. If Henry here gave up his job, Jim couldn't
get it, and you know it."

Henry went on. He hardly heard now what they were saying. His mind
was revelling in its free flights of rebellion against everything.
Henry, for a man who kept the commandments, was again as wicked as he
could be, and revelling in his wickedness. He was like a drinker
returned to his cups. His joy was immense, but unholy. However, the
accusation that he was taking bread from another man who needed it
more than he still rankled. He could, after all, rise somewhat above
mere greed. He resolved that he would give, and no one should know of
his giving, to the family of the man Jim who had no work.

During the morning Henry did not trouble himself about Sylvia and
what she would think about it all. Towards noon, however, he began to
dread going home and facing her. When he started he felt fairly
cowardly. He stopped at the drug store and bought a pound of
peppermints.

Albion Bennet waited on him. Albion Bennet was an intensely
black-haired man in his forties. His black hair was always sleek with
a patent hair-oil which he carried in his stock. He always wore a red
tie and an old-fashioned scarf-pin set with a tiny diamond, and his
collars were made of celluloid.

"I have gone back to the hotel to board," he informed Henry, while
tying up the parcel. He colored a little under his black, bristling
cheeks as he spoke.

"I thought you left," said Henry.

"So I did. I went to board at the Joneses', but--I can't stand a girl
right in my face and eyes all the time. When I want to get married,
and see the right one, then I want to do the courting; but hang it if
I can stand being courted, and that's what I've been up against ever
since I left the hotel, and that's a fact. Susy Jones was enough, but
when it came to Fanny Elliot getting thick with her, and both of them
on hand, it was too much. But I stuck it out till Susy began to do
the cooking and her mother made me eat it."

"I have heard Miss Hart wasn't a very good cook," said Henry.

"Well, she ain't anything to brag of; but say, a man can stand
regulation cooking done bad, bu