of nervous despondence. "I'm tired," he explained hastily. "I'd sooner go to bed early."
And Don understood that the fear of the city, against which he himself had been fighting, had found Conroy the weaker in spite of his greater physical strength.
Don went out alone in the morning—Conroy excusing himself with the plea that he had some letters to write—and he proceeded first to the address of a mining company that had advertised for an educated young man to do desk work. It was a glorious May morning, warm with sunlight and cool with a light breeze; and the crowded pavements were noisy with a joyful activity that seemed to move to the gay tunes of street pianos, as inspiringly as an army on the march. That immense jocundity, which sparkles in the clean air of Manhattan on such days, inspired Don as it inspired the facetious truck-drivers and cabmen abusing each other in a jam of traffic, the good-natured policeman who separated them, the smiling pedestrians who dodged under the horses' heads, the loiterers who paused on the curb to grin and comment, the shrill street gamin, the eager men and women hurrying by on the walks with side glances of amusement—all the bustling life of that thronged island which seems to catch from its sea breezes some of the recklessness that makes sailors so irresponsible, so apparently care-free, so good-natured, in spite of their obscure toil and the uncertainty of their fates.
