He was on the gray and wrinkled side of the half-century mark, somewhat bent, and slow of step.
This was the tune of his dirge:
"My life is a failure. I have never had a chance. My father was poor and couldn't give me the advantages that other young men had. So I've had my nose on the grindstone all my life long.
"See what I am to-day. While other men have made money and, at my age, are well fixed, I am dependent on my little old Saturday night envelope to keep me from starving. That wouldn't be so bad, but my employers are beginning to hint that I'm not so lively as I was once and that a younger man would fill the job better. It's only a question of time when I'll be a leading member of the Down and Out Club. Then it'll be the Bay for mine."
Our friend, whom we call Mr. Socratic, butted into the conversation right here.
"Pretty tough luck!" he said. "Know any men of your age that are doing better?"
"Sure, lots of 'em."
"What's the reason?"
"Well, they have had better luck."
"How do you mean? Investments turned out better?"