from his high estate.

When his meditations had continued for something like ten minutes, he
rose from the bed, blew a cloud of smoke, stretched himself, strapped
his valise once more, gave himself what the sailors call a hoist, that
he might be sure his money-belt was in its proper position, and then
unlocked the door, passed out, re-locked it after him, and returned to
the bar. There he called for certain curious liquors, smelt them
suspiciously before using them, and then proceeded deliberately to mix
himself a peculiar drink. The landlord watched him with appreciative
surprise. He imagined himself to be familiar with every drink known to
the taste of man, having had wide experience, but such an one as this he
had never encountered before.

"What do you call it?" he asked, when the other had finished his
preparations.

"I call it a 'Help to Reformation,'" the stranger replied. Then, with a
sneer upon his face, he added, "It should be popular with your
customers."

Taking the drink with him into the verandah outside, he seated himself
in a long chair and proceeded to sip it slowly, as if it were some
elixir whose virtue would be lost by haste. Some people might have been
amused by the motley crowd that passed along the street beyond the
verandah-rails, but Gideon Hayle, for such was his name, took no sort of
interest in it. He had seen it too often to find any variety in it. As a
matter of fact the mere sight of a pigtail was sufficient to remind him
of a certain episode in his career which he had been for years
endeavouring to forget.