For obvious reasons Garrison had not chosen his usual haven, the
smoking-car, on the train. It was filled to overflowing from the
Aqueduct track, and he knew that his name would be mentioned frequently
and in no complimentary manner. His soul had been stripped bare,
sensitive to a breath. It would writhe under the mild compassion of a
former admirer as much as it would under the open jibes of his enemies.
He had plenty of enemies. Every "is," "has-been," "would-be," "will-be"
has enemies. It is well they have. Nothing is lost in nature. Enemies
make you; not your friends.

Garrison had selected a car next to the smoker and occupied a seat at
the forward end, his back to the engine. His hands were deep in his
pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring straight ahead under
the brim of his slouch-hat. His eyes were looking inward, not outward;
they did not see his surroundings; they were looking in on the ruin of
his life.

The present, the future, did not exist; only the past lived--lived with
all the animalism of a rank growth. He was too far in the depths to even
think of reerecting his life's structure. His cough was troubling him;
his brain throbbing, throbbing.

Then, imperceptibly, as Garrison's staring, blank eyes slowly turned
from within to without, occasioned by a violent jolt of the train,
something flashed across their retina; they became focused, and a
message was wired to his brain. Instantly his eyes dropped, and he
fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

He found he had been staring into a pair of slate-gray eyes; staring