in quantity were manly, to a certainty. Six feet of maul-swinging
humanity had eaten much, even in midsummer. That same six feet
required more now, when the temperature was low and the system needed
carbon. Perhaps he got all that was good for him; it is well to train
down a little occasionally; but Harlson wandered about sometimes with a
feeling of sympathy for the wolf of the forest, the hawk of the air,
and the pickerel of the waters, all hungry ever and all refusing to
live by bread alone.

As time passed this condition of things wore upon the man. His
fancies, if not morbid, became a trifle ugly. He worked feverishly,
but he chafed at his own ignorance of city ways, such that he could not
increase his income. He sought manual labor which could be done at
night, but failed even in this, for at that time he lacked utterly the
way about him which fits the city, and persuades the man of business
when there is little labor to be done. It was almost a time of panic.
He would wander about the streets at night like a lost spirit.
Sometimes he would meet old college friends. He had classmates in the
city, some of them well-to-do and well established, and they were glad
to meet him, the man who had done a little to give the class its
record, and he was invited to swell dinners and to parties. He would
but feign excuses, and to none of them told bluntly, as he should have
done, just what his situation was, and how a trifling aid would make
his future different. He was very proud, this arrogant product of the
old Briton blending and the new world's new northwest, and he lacked
the sense which comes with experience in the bearings of a life all
novel, and so he remained silent, and, incidentally, hungry.

It was at this period of his career that Harlson was in closest
sympathy with the sad-eyed Hindoo king. He was not doing anything out