“I don’t know why you should bother, Bub,” said Stanley, clasping the other’s hand impulsively. “You know more’n I do.”
“No, I don’t,” sorrowfully replied Bub. “I can’t talk the lingo you can.” Then with a blaze of optimism, “But, my son, if you’re not fired I’ll learn the trick from you. I talk rough, but watch my smoke. I’ll pick it up. So long.”
Stanley found the room as one in a dream. Not only was he worn out by physical hardships, but by gloomy thoughts. It all seemed so hopeless. A dozen Frenchmen now could have been abused in his sight and he would not offer to interfere. It was all so rough and hard. There was no single redeeming feature. Hold on—there was Bub. Bub was a true friend. He owed his supper and bed to Bub. Then with a flush of shame he remembered that this same uncouth Bub, with no advantages, was ahead of him in book knowledge. Accompanied by these disagreeable thoughts he fell asleep.
In a vague way Stanley knew four o’clock in the morning, was, at some seasons of the year, in the neighborhood of sunrise. He always had believed it to be an early hour, judging entirely from hearsay; but he never had appreciated just how early it was until Bub
