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“He was always th’ han’some divil. I used to look forward to ironin’ day just for the pleasure of pressin’ his fancy shirts for him. I’m that partial to them swell blondes. But I dinnaw, he’s changed. Doin’ time has taken the edge off his hair an’ complexion. Not changed his color, do yuh mind, but dulled it, like a gold ring, or the like, that has tarnished.”

Ted was seated in the smoker, with a chip on his shoulder, and a sick horror of encountering some one he knew in his heart, when Jo Haley, of the Haley House, got on at Westport, homeward bound. Jo Haley is the most eligible bachelor in our town, and the slipperiest. He has made the Haley House a gem, so that traveling men will cut half a dozen towns to Sunday there. If he should say “Jump through this!” to any girl in our town she’d jump.

Jo Haley strolled leisurely up the car aisle toward Ted. Ted saw him coming and sat very still, waiting.

“Hello, Ted! How’s Ted?” said Jo Haley, casually. And dropped into the adjoining seat without any more fuss.

Ted wet his lips slightly and tried to say something. He had been a breezy talker. But the words would not come. Jo Haley made no effort to cover the situation with a rush of conversation. He did not seem to realize that there was any situation to cover. He champed the end of his cigar and handed one to Ted.

“Well, you’ve taken your lickin’, kid. What you going to do now?”

The rawness of it made Ted wince. “Oh, I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’ve a job half promised in Chicago.”

“What doing?”

Ted laughed a short and ugly laugh. “Driving a brewery auto truck.”

Jo Haley tossed his cigar dexterously to the opposite corner of his mouth and squinted thoughtfully along its bulging sides.

“Remember that Wenzel girl that’s kept books for me for the last six years? She’s leaving in a couple of months to marry a New York guy that travels for ladies’ cloaks and suits. After she goes it’s nix with the lady bookkeepers for me. Not that Minnie isn’t a good, straight girl, and honest, but no girl can keep books with one eye on a column of figures and the other on a traveling man in a brown suit and a red necktie, unless she’s cross-eyed, and you bet Minnie ain’t. The job’s yours if you want it. Eighty a month to start on, and board.”

“I–can’t, Jo. Thanks just the same. I’m going to try to begin all over again, somewhere else, where nobody knows me.”

“Oh yes,” said Jo. “I knew a fellow that did that. After he came out he grew a beard, and wore eyeglasses, and changed his name. Had a quick, crisp way of talkin’, and he cultivated a drawl and went west and started in business. Real estate, I think. Anyway, the second month he was there in walks a fool he used to know and bellows: `Why if it ain’t Bill! Hello, Bill! I thought you was doing time yet.’ That was enough. Ted, you can black your face, and dye your hair, and squint, and some fine day, sooner or later, somebody’ll come along and blab the whole thing. And say, the older it gets the worse it sounds, when it does come out. Stick around here where you grew up, Ted.”

Ted clasped and unclasped his hands uncomfortably. “I can’t figure out why you should care how I finish.”

“No reason,” answered Jo. “Not a darned one. I wasn’t ever in love with your ma, like the guy on the stage; and I never owed your pa a cent. So it ain’t a guilty conscience. I guess it’s just pure cussedness, and a hankerin’ for a new investment. I’m curious to know how’ll you turn out. You’ve got the makin’s of what the newspapers call a Leading Citizen, even if you did fall down once. If I’d ever had time to get married, which I never will have, a first-class hotel bein’ more worry and expense than a Pittsburg steel magnate’s whole harem, I’d have wanted somebody to do the same for my kid. That sounds slushy, but it’s straight.”