“I've just seen him,” said Presley, as he joined the others. “He was at Caraher's. I only saw his back. He was drinking at a table and his back was towards me. But the man looked broken—absolutely crushed. It is terrible, terrible.”
“He was at Caraher's, was he?” demanded Annixter.
“Yes.”
“Drinking, hey?”
“I think so. Yes, I saw a bottle.”
“Drinking at Caraher's,” exclaimed Annixter, rancorously; “I can see HIS finish.”
There was a silence. It seemed as if nothing more was to be said. They paused, looking thoughtfully on the ground.
In silence, grim, bitter, infinitely sad, the three men as if at that moment actually standing in the bar-room of Caraher's roadside saloon, contemplated the slow sinking, the inevitable collapse and submerging of one of their companions, the wreck of a career, the ruin of an individual; an honest man, strong, fearless, upright, struck down by a colossal power, perverted by an evil influence, go reeling to his ruin.
“I see his finish,” repeated Annixter. “Exit Dyke, and score another tally for S. Behrman, Shelgrim and Co.”
He moved away impatiently, loosening the tie-rope with which the buckskin was fastened. He swung himself up.