enough to look out for himself, and "Dodd" waited awhile to look
around. So, between the two, the cup of salvation that the boy should
have quaffed, fell, and was broken.

"Dodd" drifted about the town for many days, seeing what he could see.
His memory of Mr. Bright was still fresh and nourishing, and it often
held him from wrong, where his natural inclination would have carried
him clear over the line that separates evil from good. An iron, well
heated, will hold its heat long after it is taken out of the fire. It
grows cold, though, after a while.

So the boy began to circle about in the outer edge of the whirlpool
that sucks in its victims so relentlessly and remorselessly, always, in
the city.

I wish I did not have to tell the tale of still another descent into
Avernus, of this boy of the checkered career. But I have started out
to paint the picture exactly as it is, and I dip my brush in black
again with a sigh. You have to do the same thing in telling, even to
yourself, the story of yourself, don't you, my reader whose blood has
iron in it, and whose pulses beat fast? I am not writing of a
sluggish-veined person, nor for people of that complexion, good people
though they are.

"Dodd" had never been to the theatre. He was curious to go, and now
that he came within reach of this class of amusements he was all
anxiety to gratify his desire in this direction. He said nothing to
his father or his mother about this, however. Indeed, it would have
availed little if he had; that is, as these amusements were always
looked upon by the parson and his good wife. They would have contented