"But you have friends," said Vox, kindly.
"Friends that have ceased to be friends are worse than strangers," replied the man, in an abstracted sort of way. "My friends don't believe in me; I've got to make new friends, who don't know how weak I am. Perhaps they will believe in me for a while at least, and that will give a man some strength. But to be all alone in a fearful struggle! Oh, it's the loneliness that takes all the heart out of one. You know how one voice steadies another in singing. Drunk as I was when I sang with you, I believe I sang every note correctly; but alone I couldn't have rendered three notes true. I want you to let me rest for a while on your confidence, your good wishes, Mr. Vox; and to let me drop in once in a while, just to tell you that I am all right yet."
"My good fellow, you can come, and you can stay with me just as much as you want to," said Vox; and for all that he knew that this was a very rash thing to say to a stranger, he would have resented any one's telling him so.
"No," replied the man, "I shall not intrude upon you; but may I ask you to keep this pledge I have written? The paper is crumpled; that's because I have taken it out so often when the temptation was pretty strong. It was something like a friend; and I could say to it, 'You see I have kept faith with you, bit of paper, and I will.' So I would start out on another campaign. But if you will keep it for me I will feel better. I can think then that somebody knows what I am doing."
Vox took the paper. It was written in fine penmanship, and signed "Charles Downs."
"Downs? Charles Downs? Not Downs who used to be in the Mendelssohn? The tenor at St. Martha's? And you are speaking of being grateful to me for a common act of humanity! Why, man, I owe more to you than I can ever repay. It was hearing you sing once that gave me my first ambition to be a singer. I began to save my money that night that I might take lessons. I even tried to find you; but you had gone, nobody knew where."
"I was on the road to hell then," said Downs. "Thank Heaven you didn't find me; I might have injured you by my example. But no, I think not. You were not inclined my way."
The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Thought was becoming oppressive. Vox was of that mercurial disposition that cannot keep solemn long at a time. His vent-valves worked easily.
"Come," said he, "let's try the old song."
If he had deliberated he would not have chosen a reminder of the past. But there was something irresistible about Vox, and Downs joined with him as they rollicked through the "Muleteers."