He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close business relations.
“Mr. Hall!” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his countenance. “This is dreadful!”
“You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows that better than I do,” was answered, with a bitterness that his old friend felt to be genuine.
“Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?” asked the friend.
“I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me,” was replied, with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham.
“Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he exclaimed. Two hands closed in a tight grip.
“Where are you going now?” inquired the friend.
“I'm in search of something to do—something that will give me honest bread. Look at my hand.”
He held it up.
“It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have bought it, but I did not.”