He walked on smiling up the long wharf, encumbered with
trucks and hacks and piles of freight, and, taking his way
through the deserted business streets beyond this bustle,
made a point of passing the door of Lapham's warehouse,
on the jambs of which his name and paint were lettered in
black on a square ground of white. The door was still open,
and Corey loitered a moment before it, tempted to go
upstairs and fetch away some foreign letters which he
had left on his desk, and which he thought he might finish
up at home. He was in love with his work, and he felt
the enthusiasm for it which nothing but the work we can
do well inspires in us. He believed that he had found
his place in the world, after a good deal of looking,
and he had the relief, the repose, of fitting into it.
Every little incident of the momentous, uneventful day
was a pleasure in his mind, from his sitting down
at his desk, to which Lapham's boy brought him the
foreign letters, till his rising from it an hour ago.
Lapham had been in view within his own office, but he
had given Corey no formal reception, and had, in fact,
not spoken to him till toward the end of the forenoon,
when he suddenly came out of his den with some more
letters in his hand, and after a brief "How d'ye do?"
had spoken a few words about them, and left them with him.
Pages:
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160