he buried himself, striving to wipe from his consciousness a scene being
enacted before his eyes upon the street.

The realisation of the fact that his father was a confirmed liar and
braggart had for years cast a shadow over his days and the shadow had been
made blacker by the fact that in a land where the least fortunate can
laugh in the face of want he had more than once stood face to face with
poverty. He believed that the logical answer to the situation was money in
the bank and with all the ardour of his boy's heart he strove to realise
that answer. He wanted to be a money-maker and the totals at the foot of
the pages in the soiled yellow bankbook were the milestones that marked
the progress he had already made. They told him that the daily struggles
with Fatty, the long tramps through Caxton's streets on bleak winter
evenings, and the never-ending Saturday nights when crowds filled the
stores, the sidewalks, and the drinking places, and he worked among them
tirelessly and persistently were not without fruit.

Suddenly, above the murmur of men's voices on the street, his father's
voice rose loud and insistent. A block further down the street, leaning
against the door of Hunter's jewelry store, Windy talked at the top of his
lungs, pumping his arms up and down with the air of a man making a stump
speech.

"He is making a fool of himself," thought Sam, and returned to his
bankbook, striving in the contemplation of the totals at the foot of the
pages to shake off the dull anger that had begun to burn in his brain.
Glancing up again, he saw that Joe Wildman, son of the grocer and a boy of
his own age, had joined the group of men laughing and jeering at Windy.
The shadow on Sam's face grew heavier.