That gladdened him till after lunch. But at three, when his head
was again foggy with work and he had forgotten whether there was
still April anywhere, he began to dread what the manager might
do to him. Suppose he lost his job; The Job! He worked
unnecessarily late, hoping that the manager would learn of it.
As he wavered home, drunk with weariness, his fear of losing
The Job was almost equal to his desire to resign from The Job.
He had worked so late that when he awoke on Sunday morning he
was still in a whirl of figures. As he went out to his
breakfast of coffee and whisked wheat at the Hustler Lunch the
lines between the blocks of the cement walk, radiant in a white
flare of sunshine, irritatingly recalled the cross-lines of
order-lists, with the narrow cement blocks at the curb standing
for unfilled column-headings. Even the ridges of the Hustler
Lunch's imitation steel ceiling, running in parallel lines,
jeered down at him that he was a prosaic man whose path was a ruler.
He went clear up to the branch post-office after breakfast to
get the Sunday mail, but the mail was a disappointment.
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