"Certainly not," said Brian with acid politeness. "You're merely
subject to periodic fits of indolence. You've said as much yourself."

It was irrefutable. Kenny, offended, brought his fist down upon the
table with a bang.

"I know precisely what you're going to say," cut in Brian. "I'm
ungrateful. I'm not. But it's misdirected generosity on your part,
Kenny. And I'm through. I'm tired," he added simply. "I want to live
my own life away from the things I can't do well. I'm tired of
drifting."

"And to-night?"

Brian flung out his hands.

"The last straw!" he said bitterly.

"You're meaning the shotgun, Brian?" demanded Kenny.

"I'm meaning the shotgun."

"What will you do?" interposed the peacemaker in the nick of time.

"I've done some free-lance reporting for John Whitaker," said Brian.
"I think he'll give me a big chance. He's interested." His voice--it
had in it at times a hint of Kenny's soft and captivating brogue--was
splendidly boyish and eager now. "Foreign perhaps or war. Maybe
Mexico. Anything so I can write the truth, Garry, the big truth that's