Suddenly, above the murmur of men's voices on the street, his father's
voice rose loud and insistent. A block further down the street, leaning
against the door of Hunter's jewelry store, Windy talked at the top of his
lungs, pumping his arms up and down with the air of a man making a stump
speech.
"He is making a fool of himself," thought Sam, and returned to his
bankbook, striving in the contemplation of the totals at the foot of the
pages to shake off the dull anger that had begun to burn in his brain.
Glancing up again, he saw that Joe Wildman, son of the grocer and a boy of
his own age, had joined the group of men laughing and jeering at Windy.
The shadow on Sam's face grew heavier.
Sam had been at Joe Wildman's house; he knew the air of plenty and of
comfort that hung over it; the table piled high with meat and potatoes;
the group of children laughing and eating to the edge of gluttony; the
quiet, gentle father who amid the clamour and the noise did not raise his
voice, and the well-dressed, bustling, rosy-cheeked mother. As a contrast
to this scene he began to call up in his mind a picture of life in his own
home, getting a kind of perverted pleasure out of his dissatisfaction with
it.
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