THE STEADFAST HEART
curacy was a quality not to be despised in a banker. He turned to his desk and began opening his mail. Angus coughed. There was a thing he wanted to say, something was on his mind, but he did not know how to commence.
“I—” he began.
“What is it?” Mr. Woodhouse asked, turning courteously.
“They don’t want me to work here.”
“Who doesn’t? What do you mean?”
“They—the two men out there.”
“Chet and Gene?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Woodhouse frowned and considered. “How do you know?” he asked.
“It was—the way they looked—when you told them I was going to.”
Mr. Woodhouse reflected on this; he understood something of the unpleasantness of Angus’s life—understood the sensitiveness of the boy—how, always, he was on the outlook for hostile expression, for signs that he was not wanted. The old banker sighed, and put his hand on Angus’s shoulder.
“My boy,” he said, “suppose they do object? Suppose they try to make things unpleasant for you?”
Angus considered. He expected the cashier and his assistant would make things unpleasant
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