the superintendent, a man in the thirties, shaven, pale, weary, who wore a blue eyeshade, armbands, and talked with a limp cigarette plastered on his lip.
Eugene thrust out his employment slip in shaking fingers. The man looked briefly at it.
“College boy, aren’t you, son?” he said, glancing at Eugene.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
“Did you ever do day labor before?” said the man.
“No, sir,” said Eugene.
“How old are you, son?” the man asked.
Eugene was silent for a moment. “I’m—nineteen,” he said at length, wondering, since he had lied, why he had not had courage to say twenty.
The superintendent grinned wearily.
“It’s hard work, son,” the man said. “You’ll be among the wops and the Swedes and the hunkies. You’ll live in the same bunkhouse, you’ll eat with them. They don’t smell nice, son.”
“I have no money,” said Eugene. “I’ll work hard. I won’t get sick. Give me the job. Please!”
“No,” said the man. “No, I won’t do that.”
Eugene turned blindly away.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” said the superintendent. “I’ll give you a job as a checker. You’ll be with the office force. That’s where you belong. You’ll live with them in their own bunk-house. They’re nice fellows,” he said elegantly, “college fellows, like yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Eugene, clenching his fingers, with husky emotion. “Thank you.”
“The checker we’ve got is quitting,” said the superintendent. “You’ll go to the stables with him in the morning to get your horse.”
“H-h-h-horse?” said Eugene.
“You’ll have a horse,” said the superintendent, “to ride around on.”
With strong bowel-excitement Eugene began to think of the horse, with joy, with fear. He turned to go. He could not bear to talk of money.
