meet here every night have killed their man. Others have done worse
things for which you respect them less. Poor Wallace, who is just coming
in, and who looks like a jaunty ragpicker, came here about six months
ago with about two thousand dollars, the proceeds from the sale of a
house his father had left him. He 'll sleep in one of the club chairs
to-night, and not from choice. He spent his two thousand learning. But,
after all, it was a good investment. It was like buying an annuity. He
begins to know already how to live on others as they have lived on him.
The plucked bird's beak is sharpened for other's feathers. From now on
Wallace will live, eat, drink, and sleep at the expense of others, and
will forget to mourn his lost money. He will go on this way until,
broken and useless, the poor-house or the potter's field gets him. Oh,
it 's a fine, rich life, my lad. I know you 'll like it. I said you
would the first time I saw you. It has plenty of stir in it, and a man
never gets lonesome. Only the rich are lonesome. It 's only the
independent who depend upon others."

Sadness laughed a peculiar laugh, and there was a look in his terribly
bright eyes that made Joe creep. If he could only have understood all
that the man was saying to him, he might even yet have turned back. But
he did n't. He ordered another drink. The only effect that the talk of
Sadness had upon him was to make him feel wonderfully "in it." It gave
him a false bravery, and he mentally told himself that now he would not
be afraid to face Hattie.

He put out his hand to Sadness with a knowing look. "Thanks, Sadness,"
he said, "you 've helped me lots."

Sadness brushed the proffered hand away and sprung up. "You lie," he
cried, "I have n't; I was only fool enough to try;" and he turned