gust of Don's expression, and misunderstood it. "Honest, now. I ain't tryin' to sting y' again. This 's on the straight. If yuh want the dough"
Don had been watching a street-car approaching behind Dixon; when it was almost opposite, he darted aside, as if dodging an attempt to catch him, ran out into the roadway and sprang on the step of the car as it clanged at full speed up the street. And looking back over his shoulder, panting, as if in fear of pursuit, he saw the amazed Dixon staring after him, open-mouthed. As he sank into his seat, the shame of having fallen to Dixon's level broke on him in a hot blush. It burned him like a brand of infamy when the conductor—who had seen him running like a pickpocket and had expected a policeman to appear on his trail—looked at his money suspiciously, hesitated, and then reluctantly rang up his fare.
He was noticeably silent at the dinner-table. "What's wrong, Don?" Conroy asked him, when they were washing dishes together. "Have you been 'fired'?"
"No," he said. "I've 'left.'"
"What was it? What have you been doing?"
Don shook his head. He felt that no matter how long he lived, he must carry the guilt of that employment with him as a crime which he could not confess. He shuddered to think that some day he might tell her—unable to have such a secret between them—and that she would despise him for it.
He went to bed, that night, without looking at her face in his watch.
