That night as usual Byron called on Mary. He wondered, now that he was working downtown, how he could manage to keep this up and do a little writing also. He would have to plan his hours. Now that his father had stopped his allowance, his wages gave him barely enough money on which to exist. He would be compelled to eschew social recreations until he might succeed in selling a short story.
Well, Olive demanded, as Mary opened the door to let Byron enter, how's the labouring man? I'm going to give you a pail to carry your lunch in. I forgot my lunch today, Byron laughed, and I had to eat out of one of the other fellow's buckets.
What kind are they? Olive inquired.
Oh, all right, I guess. You know. You work downtown.
They're different in different buildings, Olive persisted. What kind are these?
Oh, I guess I could put up with them, Byron responded, but they seem to think I'm putting on airs. My clothes or my English are too good. One of 'em called me an arnchy.
I forgot to warn you, said Howard. You ought to speak in dialect. These low-class smokes haven't any use for a fellow that puts on airs. You have to be a mixer.
Well, I seem to be all wrong, Byron remarked ruefully. I can't begin to speak dialect tomorrow.
