They were all
irrepressibly gay, calling from roof to ground, each begging the
photographer to focus on his own particular charm.
Perhaps fifty cents--Elim Meikeljohn would have liked a place in the
picture; he would like to possess one, to keep it as a memento of the
youthful life that flowed constantly about him, but the probable cost
was prohibitive. He even wished, as he paused before making his way up
the crowded veranda steps, that some one would ask him to stay and have
his picture taken with the rest. He delayed, hoping for the mere
formality of this friendliness. But it was not forthcoming. He had felt
that it wouldn't be; he had divined the careless silence with which the
men moved aside for him to mount. There was even a muttered allusion to
his famous Scotch thrift, contained in a sharper word. Elim didn't
mind--actively. He had been accustomed to the utmost monetary caution
since the first dawn of his consciousness. He had come to regard the
careful weighing of pennies as an integral part of his being. It had
always been necessary for the Meikeljohns, father and son, on their
rocky pastures. He didn't mind, but at the same time he bore a faint
resentment at the injustice of the marked and perceptible disdain of
the majority of his fellows.
They didn't understand, he told himself, still ascending to his room in
the third floor back. Every cent that he could squeeze from his small
salary must go back to the support of the invalid, his wife.
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