He had suffered inordinately in his narrow cell--fully
paid, it had seemed, the price of his fault. But apparently he was
wrong; the thing was to follow him through life--and he would live a
long while--; condemning him, an outcast, to the company of his
fellows.
His shoulders drooped, his face took on the relaxed sullenness of those
about him; curiously, in an instant he seemed more bedraggled, more
disreputable, hopeless.
French Janin continued:
"Your voice is good enough for the people who know nothing. Perhaps it
will bring you money, singing at fairs in the street. I have a violin,
a cheap thing without soul; but I can get a thin jingle out of it.
Suppose we go out together, try our chance where there is a little
crowd; it will be better than piggin' in the earth."
It would, Baggs thought, be easier than carrying heavy crates; subtly
the idea of lessened labor appealed to him. He signified his assent and
rolled over on his side, staring into nothingness.
French Janin went into the town the following day--he walked with a
surprising facility and speed--to discover where they might find a
gathering for their purpose. Harry Baggs loafed about the camp until
the other returned with the failing of light.
"The sales about the country are all that get the people together now,"
he reported; "the parks are empty till July. There's to be one tomorrow
about eight miles away; we'll try it."
He went to the shelter, where he secured a scarred violin, with roughly
shaped pegs and lacking a string.
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