He was a month's rent behind on the typewriter, which he could not pay, having barely enough for the week's board which was due and for the employment office fees.
He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully.

There were ink stains upon it, and he suddenly discovered that he was fond of it.
"Dear old table," he said, "I've spent some happy hours with you, and you've been a pretty good friend when all is said and done.

You never turned me down, never passed me out a reward-of-unmerit rejection slip, never complained about working overtime." He dropped his arms upon the table and buried his face in them.

His throat was aching, and he wanted to cry.

It reminded him of his first fight, when he was six years old, when he punched away with the tears running down his cheeks while the other boy, two years his elder, had beaten and pounded him into exhaustion.