himself savagely, as he put on his shabby clothing, that, having sought for
peace and now found it, he was an ass for resenting it. The trouble was,
of course, that he came of fighting stock: soldiers and explorers, even a
gentleman adventurer or two, had been his forefather. He loathed peace
with a deadly loathing.

Having given up everything else, K. Le Moyne had also given up the love of
woman. That, of course, is figurative. He had been too busy for women;
and now he was too idle. A small part of his brain added figures in the
office of a gas company daily, for the sum of two dollars and fifty cents
per eight-hour working day. But the real K. Le Moyne that had dreamed
dreams, had nothing to do with the figures, but sat somewhere in his head
and mocked him as he worked at his task.

"Time's going by, and here you are!" mocked the real person--who was, of
course, not K. Le Moyne at all. "You're the hell of a lot of use, aren't
you? Two and two are four and three are seven--take off the discount.
That's right. It's a man's work, isn't it?"

"Somebody's got to do this sort of thing," protested the small part of his
brain that earned the two-fifty per working day. "And it's a great
anaesthetic. He can't think when he's doing it. There's something
practical about figures, and--rational."

He dressed quickly, ascertaining that he had enough money to buy a
five-dollar ticket at Mrs. McKee's; and, having given up the love of woman
with other things, he was careful not to look about for Sidney on his way.

He breakfasted at Mrs. McKee's, and was initiated into the mystery of the
ticket punch. The food was rather good, certainly plentiful; and even his