Trotter
quickened his steps, tingling, abashed, shaken with an inordinate
and ridiculous sense of guilt. He felt that he wanted to keep out
of the light, that he ought to skulk in the shadows until he was
free of the weight on his arm. He hurried on until he became
desperate, determined to end the farce at any hazard. So, as he
passed a building where a house front was being converted into a
low-windowed shop face, he dropped the paper package into an
abandoned mortar box.
He was startled, a moment later, by a voice calling sharply after
him: "Hi, yuh! You've dropped y'ur bundle!"
Trotter turned guiltily about. It was a night watchman. He
stepped slowly out to the mortar box as he spoke, and picked up
the parcel.
There was nothing for Trotter to do but go back and take it. He
mumbled something--he scarcely remembered whether it was a word
of explanation or of thanks. But he felt the eye of the night
watchman boring through him like a gimlet, and he was glad to
edge off and be on his way again.
By this time Trotter could feel the sweat of embarrassment on his
tingling body. He began to dramatize ridiculous contingencies.
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