“You mean makin’ b’lieve you don’t care about them?” Jim queried eagerly.

Martin considered for a moment, then answered, “Perhaps that will do, but with me I guess it’s different.  I never have cared—­much.  If you can put it on, it’s all right, most likely.”

“You should ‘a’ ben up at Riley’s barn last night,” Jim announced inconsequently.  “A lot of the fellers put on the gloves.  There was a peach from West Oakland.  They called ’m ‘The Rat.’  Slick as silk.  No one could touch ‘m.  We was all wishin’ you was there.  Where was you anyway?”

“Down in Oakland,” Martin replied.

“To the show?”

Martin shoved his plate away and got up.

“Comin’ to the dance to-night?” the other called after him.

“No, I think not,” he answered.

He went downstairs and out into the street, breathing great breaths of air.  He had been suffocating in that atmosphere, while the apprentice’s chatter had driven him frantic.  There had been times when it was all he could do to refrain from reaching over and mopping Jim’s face in the mush-plate.  The more he had chattered, the more remote had Ruth seemed to him.  How could he, herding with such cattle, ever become worthy of her?  He was appalled at the problem confronting him, weighted down by the incubus of his working-class station.  Everything reached out to hold him down—­his sister, his sister’s house and family, Jim the apprentice, everybody he knew, every tie of life.  Existence did not taste good in his mouth.  Up to then he had accepted existence, as he had lived it with all about him, as a good thing.  He had never questioned it, except when he read books; but then, they were only books, fairy stories of a fairer and impossible world.  But now he had seen that world, possible and real, with a flower of a woman called Ruth in the midmost centre of it; and thenceforth he must know bitter tastes, and longings sharp as pain, and hopelessness that tantalized because it fed on hope.

He had debated between the Berkeley Free Library and the Oakland Free Library, and decided upon the latter because Ruth lived in Oakland.  Who could tell?—­a library was a most likely place for her, and he might see her there.  He did not know the way of libraries, and he wandered through endless rows of fiction, till the delicate-featured French-looking girl who seemed in charge, told him that the reference department was upstairs.  He did not know enough to ask the man at the desk, and began his adventures in the philosophy alcove.  He had heard of book philosophy, but had not imagined there had been so much written about it.  The high, bulging shelves of heavy tomes humbled him and at the same time stimulated him.  Here was work for the vigor of his brain.  He found books on trigonometry in the mathematics section, and ran the pages, and stared at the meaningless formulas and figures.  He could read English, but he saw there an alien speech.  Norman and Arthur knew that speech.  He had heard them talking it.  And they were her brothers.  He left the alcove in despair.  From every side the books seemed to press upon him and crush him.