holding his breath until he could reach the clean air of the street.
He ran against a young man who appeared to be hesitating at the doorway. He began: "Don't—go in. They're" But the suspicion that this might be another "Dixon" stopped his voice; and with a despairing disgust of mankind he pulled his hat down on his eyebrows and strode off tragically.
The young man followed and caught up to him. "What? What did you say?"
"They're—thieves—fakirs."
"Oh. . . . Thanks. What's the matter?"
Don, safe at a distance from the office, leaned against a lamp-post, and between laboured breaths explained what had happened. The other smiled easily. "I saw you going in with that 'tout.' I was wondering whether he was on the level now. The street's full of these con. agents. Don't ever pay them in advance. If they're straight, they'll only ask a rake-off from your first month's wages."
"An old man too—like that!" Don was trembling like a girl who has been insulted on the streets; and the other watched him, a little amused, a little sorry for him.
"You're new here?"
Don nodded, his mind set on the memory of Vandever's face.
"You'll get used to that sort of thing. There's a lot of it. . . . Looking for work?"
"Yes," he answered mechanically, staring at the gutter, miserable, in a world of roguery.
