Haldane laid down his knife and fork and fairly groaned.
"I know the plain truth is tough to hear and think about, and I'm an old brute to spile your supper by bringing it up. I hope you won't think I'm trying to save some victuals by doin' it. And yet it's the truth, and you've got to face it. But face it to-morrow—face it to-morrow; have a comfortable time to-night."
"Your statement of the case is perfectly bald," said Haldane, with a troubled brow; "there are explanatory and excusing circumstances."
"Yes, no doubt; but the world don't take much account of them. When one gits into a scrape, about the only question asked is, What did he do? And they all jump to the conclusion that if he did it once he'll do it agin. Lookin' into the circumstances takes time and trouble, and it isn't human nature to bother much about other people."
"What chance is there, then, for such as I am?"
The old man hitched uneasily on his chair, but at last, with his characteristic bluntness said, "Hanged if I know! They say that them that gits down doesn't very often git up again. Yet I know they do sometimes."
"What would you do if you were me?"
"Hanged if I know that either! Sit down and cuss myself to all eternity, like enough. I feel like doin' it sometimes as it is. A-a-h!"
"I think I know a way out of the slough," said Haldane more composedly—his thoughts recurring to his literary hopes—"and if I do, you will not be sorry."
"Of course I won't be sorry. A man allers hates one who holds a mortgage against him which is sure to be foreclosed. That's the way the devil's got me, and I hate him about as bad as I do myself, and spite him every chance I git. Of course, I'll be glad to see you git out of his clutches; but he's got his claws in you deep, and he holds on to a feller as if he'd pull him in two before he'll let go."