The fact that convictions might await him and that the heavy doors at Canon City might yawn for him made little difference right now.

Behind the great bulwark of his mustache, his big lips spread in a happy announcement of joy, and the world was good.
Silently, Robert Fairchild rose and left the parlor for his own room.
Some way he could not force himself to shed his difficulties in the same light, airy way as Harry.

He wanted to be alone, alone where he could take stock of the obstacles which had arisen in his path, of the unexplainable difficulties and tribulations which had come upon him, one trailing the other, ever since he had read the letter left for him by his father.

And it was a stock-taking of disappointing proportions.
Looking back, Fairchild could see now that his dreams had led only to catastrophes.

The bright vista which had been his that day he sat swinging his legs over the tailboard of the truck as it ground up Mount Lookout had changed to a thing of gloomy clouds and of ominous futures.
Nothing had gone right.