“Think of me,” he confided to his friend Bob Wilson one evening as during his transit through a particularly dismal slough of despond they in company were busily engaged in blazing the trail with empty bottles; “One such as I, a man of thirty and of good health, without a dollar or the prospect of a dollar, an income or the prospect of an income, a home or the prospect of a home, following a cold scent like the one I am now on!” He snapped his finger against the rim of his thin drinking glass until it rang merrily.
“The idea, again, of a man such as I, untravelled, penniless, self-educated, thinking to compete with others who journey the world over to secure material, and who have spent a fortune in preparation for this particular work.” He excitedly drained the contents of the glass.
“It’s preposterous, childlike!”––he brought the frail trifle down to the table with an emphasis 65 which was all but its destruction––“imbecile! I tell you I’m going to quit.
“Quit for good,” he repeated at the expression on the other’s face.
Bob Wilson scrutinized his companion with a critical eye.
“Waiter,” he said, speaking over his shoulder, “waiter, kindly tax our credit further to the extent of a couple of Havanas.”
“Yes, sah,” acknowledged the waiter.
Silence fell; but Bob’s observation of his friend continued.
“So you are going to quit the fight?” he commented at last.
“I am,”––decidedly.