He had classmates in the city, some of them well-to-do and well established, and they were glad to meet him, the man who had done a little to give the class its record, and he was invited to swell dinners and to parties.

He would but feign excuses, and to none of them told bluntly, as he should have done, just what his situation was, and how a trifling aid would make his future different.

He was very proud, this arrogant product of the old Briton blending and the new world's new northwest, and he lacked the sense which comes with experience in the bearings of a life all novel, and so he remained silent, and, incidentally, hungry.
It was at this period of his career that Harlson was in closest sympathy with the sad-eyed Hindoo king.

He was not doing anything out of the way; he was working hard, with clean ambitions, yet he was hungry.

He could not understand it.