But the chief peculiarities of the old gang—as they exist in the mind of Mr. Sims—is the awful fate that has overwhelmed them. It is not merely that they are scattered to the four corners of the continent. That might have been expected. But, apparently, the most awful moral ruin has fallen upon them. That, at least, is the abiding belief of Mr. Sims.
"Do you ever hear anything of McGregor now?" I ask him sometimes.
"No," he says, shaking his head quietly. "I understand he went all to the devil."
"How was that?"
"Booze," says Mr. Sims. There is a quiet finality about the word that ends all discussion.
"Poor old Curly!" says Mr. Sims, in speaking of another of his classmates. "I guess he's pretty well down and out these days."
"What's the trouble?" I say.
Mr. Sims moves his eyes sideways as he sits. It is easier than moving his head.
"Booze," he says.
Even apparent success in life does not save Mr. Sims's friends.