Harvey was standing rigid in the door of the inner office, talking to
Fox.
"He has an ingrained inaccuracy. He will never do for business," Bob
caught.
Archie looked at him pityingly.
III
The winter wore away. Bob dragged himself out of bed every morning at
half-past six, hurried through a breakfast, caught a car--and hoped that
the bridge would be closed. Otherwise he would be late at the office,
which would earn him Harvey's marked disapproval. Bob could not see that
it mattered much whether he was late or not. Generally he had nothing
whatever to do for an hour or so. At noon he ate disconsolately at a
cheap saloon restaurant. At five he was free to go out among his own
kind--with always the thought before him of the alarm clock the
following morning.
One day he sat by the window, his clean, square chin in his hand, his
eyes lost in abstraction. As he looked, the winter murk parted
noiselessly, as though the effect were prearranged; a blue sky shone
through on a glint of bluer water; and, wonder of wonders, there through
the grimy dirty roar of Adams Street a single, joyful robin note flew up
to him.
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