“Because it means wasted life. You don’t work. You’re not crooked. You can’t do any good. And only a knife in the back or a bullet from some drunken bully’s gun awaits you.”
“That isn’t a very hopeful outlook, I’ll admit,” replied Neale, thoughtfully.
At this point Hough returned with a pale, slender man whose clothes and gait were not American. He introduced him as Ancliffe. Neale felt another accession of interest. Benton might be hell, but he was meeting new types of men and women. Ancliffe was fair; he had a handsome face that held a story, and tired blue eyes that looked out upon the world wearily and mildly, without curiosity and without hope. An Englishman of broken fortunes.
“Just arrived, eh?” he said to Neale. “Rather jolly here, don’t you think?”
“A fellow’s not going to stagnate in Benton,” replied Neale.
“Not while he’s alive,” interposed Stanton.
“Miss Stanton, that idea seems to persist with you—the brevity of life,” said Neale, smiling. “What are the average days for a mortal in this bloody Benton?”
“Days! You mean hours. I call the night blessed that some one is not dragged out of my place. And I don’t sell drinks.... I’ve saved Ancliffe’s life nine times I know of. Either he hasn’t any sense or he wants to get killed.”
“I assure you it’s the former,” said the Englishman.
“But, my friends, I’m serious,” she returned, earnestly. “This awful place is getting on my nerves.... Mr. Neale here, he would have had to face a gun already but for me.”