has experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story."

"As a matter of fact," replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy
humor, "the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital.
But I believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I
thank you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the _Avenue Magazine_,
it can afford a little bad luck."

"Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as
a result of your contact with it."

"Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are
right; Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must
know, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure
in the world,--a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of
injustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than
that. I never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up
apropos; but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about
it, and find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused
at it, and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For
it's been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should
often work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to
fall back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. He
poses then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And
so he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on
the profits of the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr.
Larcher, to forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of
me where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the
wrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to
deserve the name of a man with a grievance."