"When do you go on your vacation?" I asked irrelevantly.

"In a week or ten days; may be to-morrow. It's according to how long I
stay sober."

I was sorry that he had recalled to me the name of Phyllis. It
dampened my sociability. I was not yet prepared to take him into my
confidence. The ale, however, loosened our tongues, and though we did
not talk about our present affairs we had a pleasant time recounting
the days when we were young in the sense that we had no real trouble.
Those were the times when we were earning fifteen and twenty the week;
when our watches were always in durance vile; when we lied to the poor
washerwoman and to the landlady; when we would always be "around
to-morrow" and "settle up" with our creditors.

"There was no ennui those days," laughed Hillars.

"True. Do you remember the day you stayed in bed because it was
cheaper to sleep than work on an empty stomach?"

"And do you remember the time I saved you from jail by giving the
Sheriff my new spring overcoat to pay a washerwoman's bill of six
months' standing?"

"I hung around Jersey City that day," said I. And then there was more
ale; and so on. It was nine when at last we rose.

"Well, we'll go back to the office and get your case," said Dan.
"Where's your trunk?"