Arthur, about to issue forth at a quarter to seven on Monday morning to begin work as a cooper’s apprentice, felt as if he would find all Saint X lined up to watch him make the journey in working clothes.  He had a bold front as he descended the lawn toward the gates; but at the risk of opening him to those with no sympathy for weaknesses other than their own, and for their own only in themselves, it must be set down that he seemed to himself to be shaking and skulking.  He set his teeth together, gave himself a final savage cut with the lash of “What a damned coward I am!” and closed the gate behind him and was in the street—­a workingman.  He did not realize it, but he had shown his mettle; for, no man with any real cowardice anywhere in him would have passed through that gate and faced a world that loves to sneer.

From the other big houses of that prosperous neighborhood were coming, also in working clothes, the fathers, and occasionally the sons, of families he was accustomed to regard as “all right—­for Saint X.”  At the corner of Cherry Lane, old Bolingbroke, many times a millionaire thanks to a thriving woolen factory, came up behind him and cried out, “Well, young man! This is something like.”  In his enthusiasm he put his arm through Arthur’s.  “As soon as I read your father’s will, I made one myself,” he continued as they hurried along at Bolingbroke’s always furious speed.  “I always did have my boys at work; I send ’em down half an hour before me every morning.  But it occurred to me they might bury their enthusiasm in the cemetery along with me.”  He gave his crackling, snapping laugh that was strange and even startling in itself, but seemed the natural expression of his snapping eyes and tight-curling, wiry whiskers and hair.  “So I fixed up my will.  No pack of worthless heirs to make a mockery of my life and teachings after I’m gone.  No, sir-ee!”

Arthur was more at ease.  “Appearances” were no longer against him—­distinctly the reverse.  He wondered that his vanity could have made him overlook the fact that what he was about to do was as much the regular order in prosperous Saint X, throughout the West for that matter, as posing as a European gentleman was the regular order of the “upper classes” of New York and Boston—­and that even there the European gentleman was a recent and rather rare importation.  And Bolingbroke’s hearty admiration, undeserved though Arthur felt it to be, put what he thought was nerve into him and stimulated what he then regarded as pride.  “After all, I’m not really a common workman,” reflected he.  “It’s like mother helping Mary.”  And he felt still better when, passing the little millinery shop of “Wilmot & Company” arm in arm with the great woolen manufacturer, he saw Estelle Wilmot—­sweeping out.  Estelle would have looked like a storybook princess about royal business, had she been down on her knees scrubbing a sidewalk.  He was glad she didn’t happen to see him, but he was gladder that he had seen her.  Clearly, toil was beginning to take on the appearance of “good form.”