Grimly he resumed his seat when the girl with a friendly "So long!"
had trudged on. In spite of himself he found something base in his
nature picturing his return to the emporium and to the thrice-daily
encounter with Metta Judson's cookery. He let his lower instincts
toy with the unworthy vision. Gashwiler would advance him the money
to return, and the job would be there. Probably Spencer Grant had
before this tired of the work and gone into insurance or some other
line, and probably Gashwiler would be only too glad to have the
wanderer back. He would get off No. 3 just in time for breakfast.
He brushed the monstrous scene from his eyes, shrugged it from his
shoulders. He would not give up. They had all struggled and
sacrificed, and why should he shrink from the common ordeal? But he
wished the Spanish girl hadn't talked about going back to her job.
He regretted not having stopped her with words of confident cheer
that would have stiffened his own resolution. He could see her far
down the street, on her way to the next lot, her narrow shoulders
switching from light to shadow as she trudged under the line of
eucalyptus trees.
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