THE MAN IN THE WINDOW
"What if some one sees me?" he said to himself, with a shudder. "I wouldn't mind so much out home; they haven't the same way of looking at things; but here, these rich New Yorkers—but I've got to live."
In five minutes William Young was standing in the garish light of many incandescent lamps, pulling weights and trying not to see the faces in the passing crowd.
"I only hope," he thought, "that no one passes who knows me." He went on pulling, his muscles twinkling up and down his arms. He was not a bad sight up there in that window. The crowd was greater now. "Say, look at the shoulders on that chap in the window!" they said to one another.
"He's a good one," chuckled the manager to his assistant.
"This reminds me," Young was thinking, "of the old gymnasium in early spring term when they began to limber up the football squad. But this is for money," he smiled. "I suppose I'm a professional athlete now."
He was trying to keep up his courage with
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