gies,
or come to say that, having failed to make him understand they were
necessary, you are prepared to stand by me, I will come back to this
desk. Otherwise my resignation is at your service."

He started toward the door, and Fulkerson intercepted him. "Ah, now,
look here, March! Don't do that! Hang it all, don't you see where it
leaves me? Now, you just sit down a minute and talk it over. I can make
you see--I can show you--Why, confound the old Dutch beer-buzzer! Twenty
of him wouldn't be worth the trouble he's makin'. Let him go, and the
old man 'll come round in time."

"I don't think we've understood each other exactly, Mr. Fulkerson,"
said March, very haughtily. "Perhaps we never can; but I'll leave you to
think it out."

He pushed on, and Fulkerson stood aside to let him pass, with a dazed
look and a mechanical movement. There was something comic in his rueful
bewilderment to March, who was tempted to smile, but he said to himself
that he had as much reason to be unhappy as Fulkerson, and he did
not smile. His indignation kept him hot in his purpose to suffer any
consequence rather than submit to the dictation of a man like Dryfoos;
he felt keenly the degradation of his connection with him, and all his
resentment of Fulkerson's original uncandor returned; at the same time
his heart ached with foreboding. It was not merely the work in which he
had constantly grown happier that he saw taken from him; but he felt the
misery of the man who stakes the security and plenty and peace of home
upon some cast, and knows that losing will sweep from him most that most
men find sweet and pleasant in life. He faced the fact, which no good
man can front without terror, that he was risking the support of his
family, and for a point of pride, of honor, which perhaps he had no
right to consider in view of the possible adversity. He realized, as
every hireling must, no matter how skillfully or gracefully the tie is
contrived for his wearing, that he belongs to another, whose will is his
law. His indignation was shot with abject impulses to go back and tell
Fulkerson that it was all right, and that he gave up. To end the anguish
of his struggle he quickened his steps, so that he found he was reaching
home almost at a run.

VIII.

He must have made more clatter than he supposed with his key at the
apartment door, for his wife had come to let him in when he flung it
open. "Why, Basil," she said, "what's brought you back?