To-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with him. It is in the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy ladies are trying songs, or on the street, where others, passing, notice him not but go their way in elegance.
“I had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “I had my handful. You bet I’ll get it next year.”
Is it of money he is thinking?
An automobile swings past and some fine lady, looking out, wakes to bitterness his sense of need.
“New York’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? You never get a glance when you’re out of the game. I spend too easy, that’s what’s the matter with me. But I’ll get back, you bet. Next time I’ll know enough to save. I’ll get up again, and next time I’ll stay up, see?”
Next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams come true. If so, be present and witness the glories of radiance after shadow.
“Ah, me boy, back again, you see!”
“So I see. Quite a change since last season.”
“Well, I should smile. I was down on my luck then. That won’t happen any more. They won’t catch me. I’ve learned a lesson. Say, we had a great season.”
Rings and pins attest it. A cravat of marvelous radiance speaks for itself in no uncertain tones. Striped clothes, yellow shoes, a new hat and cane. Ah, the glory, the glory! He is not to be caught any more, “you bet,” and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming upon his merry body.