A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

"Jack!" he cried, commandingly. "Look here! I want to talk to you!"

Schuyler slumped again into the depths of his chair. He looked up, dully.

"Yes?"

"Listen!" Blake demanded. "Listen closely. There's a chance for you yet! We'll take you away somewhere—for a year—five years—ten years. You can change your name—make a new start—build yourself a new character—a new honor. There's still happiness for you, Jack! We'll go and find it! Come! Shall we?"

Schuyler answered, dully, with the petulance of the mentally unfit:

"It's too late, I tell you—too late!"

"It's not too late! You'll try! Come!"

"It's too late, I say!" insisted Schuyler, thickly. "She's torn from me everything that makes life worth living. She's taken honor and manhood and self-respect—wife and child and friends—everything—everything but— this!" He patted the bare bottle before him. And then: "Let's drink," he muttered.

Blake sprang forward, desperation overwhelming him.

"My God, this is awful!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you a spark of manhood left? no brains? no bowels? nothing a man can appeal to?"