this air of humility that disturbed me. It was the discovery that he looked tired and worn, a little old and drawn about the eyes. And that made me sorry for him, in spite of myself.
"What do you want?" I asked, trying to make the question as hard and curt as I was able.
"I want you to help me," was his answer. He spoke very quietly, but something about his voice started a pulse going on each side of my neck just above my coat-collar.
"But surely you heard me say that I was tired of people who are deceitful and crooked and cowardly," I reminded him, steeling my heart against that unfair spirit of humility with which he was trying to outflank my will before it could dig itself in.
"And you put me in with that class?" he quietly inquired.
"You put yourself In with that class," I reminded him, recalling the things that had come to me during those last two days of storm and stress.
"Listen to me," he said, with a return of his more authoritative tone, "you've just said you were sick and tired of dishonest people, of crooks, as you called them. Well, that's the one thing I've been wanting to do, I've been trying to do. You thought
