He was what people called a "drummer". He was dependent for his
living upon the favor of certain merchants--men for the most part of
low ideals, who came to the city in search of their low pleasures.
One met them by waiting about in the lobbies of hotels, and in the
bar-rooms which they frequented; and always the first sign of
fellowship with them was to have a drink. And this was the field on
which the battle had to be fought!

He would hold out for months--half a year, perhaps--drinking
lemonade and putting up with their raillery. And then he would begin
with ginger-ale; and then it would come to beer; and then to
whiskey. He was always devising new plans to control himself; always
persuading himself that he had solved the problem. He would not
drink in the morning; he would not drink until after dinner; he
would not drink alone--and so on without end. His whole life was
drink, and all his thoughts were of drink--the odor of it always in
his nostrils, the image of it always before his eyes.

And the grimness of his fate lay here--that it was by his best
qualities that he was betrayed. If he had been hard and mercenary,
like some of those who preyed upon him, there might have been hope.
But he was generous and free-hearted, a slave to his impulses of
friendship. And this was what made the struggle such a cruel one to
Thyrsis; it was like the sight of some noble animal basely snared.

From his earliest days the boy had watched these forces working
themselves out. The gentleman and the "drummer" fought for
supremacy, and step by step the soul of the man was fashioned to the
work he did. To succeed with his customers he must share their ideas