crisp! Horseradish! Greens! Boiled celery! Pudding under the meat!
Beer!--What, going?"

Curtis had risen from the table with his fingers crammed in his ears.
"There's a fat splice of the devil in you to-night, Leon!" he panted.
"I've had enough of it. I'm off. Come on, Matt. If you want us, you
know where to find us--only if we don't get something to eat
soon--you'll find us dead."




CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ART OF ATLANTIS


For some time after Kelson and Curtis had left him, Hamar lolled back
in his seat, lost in thought. Thought, as he told himself repeatedly,
should be the poor man's chief recreation--it costs nothing: and if
one wants a little variety, and the walls of one's rooms are tolerably
thick, one can think aloud. Hamar often did, and derived much
enjoyment from it.

"I'm convinced of one thing," he suddenly broke out; "I'd rather be
hungry than cold. One can, in a measure, cheat one's stomach by
chewing leather or sucking pebbles, but I'll be hanged if one can kid
one's liver. It's cold that does me! A touch of cold on the liver! I
could jog along comfortably on few dollars for food--but it's a fire,
a fire I want! The temperature of this room is infernally low after