"That's all right," said Goyle.
"It's not all right. I'm broke, I tell you; and a man that's broke is all wrong."
"He may think so. I'm glad you are broke." He put his hand on a table, leaned forward, and gazed into Bodney's eyes.
"Glad," said Bodney, blinking.
"Yes, glad. It teaches you the need of money. You are forced to shove back your chair, to give your place to a brute standing behind you. You see the deal go on. You are frozen out, but no one cares. That game is life, the affairs of man epitomized; you put in your last chip, you lose, and you have failed in business. A fellow who hasn't one-tenth the education has succeeded. He stacks up the chips that you have bought, and for consolation he says that chips have no home. Am I right?"
"Yes, you are. But I want to get back into the affairs of man. Let me have ten dollars."
"Two weeks from now I can give you ten thousand. Listen to me. Wait a moment." He closed the door, came back, drew a chair in front of Bodney, sat down and leaned forward. "Now, I will submit my proposition."
"I don't know that I can entertain any proposition. I am in too desperate a fix to go into any sort of an enterprise. My blood is full of fever. I've got this gambling mania on me and I'm tempted to cut my throat. One evening you took me to a supper that was not to cost anything. It has cost everything, all the money I had, my honor, my future, my—"
"That's rot, George. I introduced you to a supper that gave you experience—real knowledge of the world. You have met men without their dress-coats—you know man as he is and not as he says he is. You were blind and I opened your eyes to the fact that money is not the reward of the honest and industrious. It is the agent of hell, and must be won by means of the devil. You ought to have been a rich man. If there'd been any foresight you would have been. And whose fault was it that the opportunity slipped? Not yours. Now to my plan. Look at me. Child stealing."
"What!" Bodney exclaimed.