Each time his courage melted, and he slumped
back to the door-step. Sending for money--gee, he groaned, that
was pretty dangerous.
Besides, he didn't wish to go away. Istra might come down and
play with him.
For three hours he writhed on that door-step, till he came to
hate it; it was as much a prison as his room at the Zapps' had
been. He hated the areaway grill, and a big brown spot on the
pavement, and, as a truck-driver hates a motorman, so did he
hate a pudgy woman across the street who peeped out from a
second-story window and watched him with cynical interest.
He finally could endure no longer the world's criticism, as
expressed by the woman opposite. He started as though he were
going to go right now to some place he had been intending to go
to all the time, and stalked away, ignoring the woman.
He caught a bus, then another, then walked a while. Now that he
was moving, he was agonizedly considering his problem: What was
Istra to him, really? What could he be to her? He _was_ just
a clerk.
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