You dog, you!" This to
Growler who had insinuated his head inside the door with the fixed
determination to run down that queer smell if possible.
Dan went slowly down the steps, and Growler, either offended at having
had the door slammed in his face, or else sensing, dog-fashion, the
sudden change in his master's mood, trotted soberly at his heels. There
was no time now to go to Calvary Alley to find out what the trouble was.
Nothing to do but go back to the factory and worry through the night,
with all sorts of disturbing thoughts swarming in his brain. Nance had
been all right the Saturday before, a little restless and discontented
perhaps, but scarcely more so than usual. He remembered how he had
counseled patience, and how hard it had been for him to keep from telling
her then and there what was in his heart. He began to wonder uneasily if
he had done right in keeping all his plans and dreams to himself. Perhaps
if he had taken her into his confidence and told her what he was striving
and saving for, she would have understood better and been happy in
waiting and working with him. For the first time he began to entertain
dark doubts concerning those columns of advice to young men in the
"Sunday Echo."
Once back at the factory, he plunged into his work with characteristic
thoroughness. It was strangely hot and still, and somewhere out on the
horizon was a grumbling discontent. It was raining hard at eleven o'clock
when he boarded a car for Butternut Lane, and by the time he reached the
Purdy's corner, the lightning was playing sharply in the northwest.
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