"Die?"
"That's what you said to me."
"I might do that, Philip," he replied, stopping suddenly in the street, as if the idea impressed him favorably.
"Of course I did not mean that, sir," I interposed.
"But it would be better to die than live as I live. I have only one cheap drink left—one glass of camphene whiskey, which seems to burn my very soul. In a word, it is better to die than to live, for such as I am."
"No; there is hope for you," I pleaded, leading him along through the street.
"Hope? No more than for a man who is already dead, Philip. I shall take my cheap drink, and then I shall be penniless again. It may be twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight, before I can raise another dollar or another drink. Then I shall suffer with horrors I cannot describe, till I can get more whiskey."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere."