's the use? Yesterday's a dead one; to-morrow's always
to-morrow. All we've got's the 'now,' and it's up to us to live it for
all we're worth. You can use up more human steam to the square inch in
worrying than you can to the square yard in hard work. Eliminate worry
and you've got the only system."

"It's all very well for you to preach," I said, "you forget I've been a
pretty sick man."

"That's no nursemaid's dream. You almost cashed in. Typhoid's a serious
proposition at the best; but when you take a crazy streak on top of it,
make a midnight getaway from the sick-ward and land up on the Slide
looking as if you'd been run through a threshing machine, well, you're
sure letting death get a short option on you. And you gave up. You
didn't want to fight. You shirked, but your youth and constitution
fought for you. They healed your wounds, they soothed your ravings, they
cooled your fever. They were a great team, and they pulled you through.
Seems as if they'd pulled you through a knot-hole, but they were on to
their job. And you weren't one bit grateful--seemed to think they had no
business to butt in."

"My hurts are more than physical."

"Yes, I know; there was that girl. You seemed to have a notion that that
was the only girl on God's green brush-pile. As I camped there by your
bedside listening to your ravings, and getting a strangle-hold on you
when you took it into your head to get funny, you blabbed out the whole
yarn. Oh, sonny, why didn't you tell your uncle? Why didn't you put me
wise? I could have given you the right steer. Have you ever known me
handle a job I couldn't make good at? I'm a whole matrimonial bureau
rolled into one. I'd have had you prancing to the tune of the wedding
march before now. But you kept mum as a mummy. Wouldn't even tell your
old pard. Now you've lost her."

"Yes, I've lost her."

"Did you ever see her after you came out of the hospital?"

"Once, once only. It was the first day. I was as thin as a rail, as
white as the pillow from which I had just raised my head. Death's
reprieve was written all over me. I dragged along wearily, leaning on a
stick. I was thinking of her, thinking, thinking always. As I scanned
the faces of the crowds that thronged the streets, I thought only of her
face. Then suddenly she was before me. She looked like a ghost, poor
little thing; and for a fluttering moment we stared at each other, she
and I, two wan, weariful ghosts."

"Yes, what did she