e
down on their luck. The outlook was hopeless, for he saw no way to
improve his condition.

"It's easy to lose one's self-respect and sink into degradation," he
muttered bitterly to himself; "and when at last you see your folly, then
it's too late--it's impossible to get back. Pshaw! What's the good?"

With a shaking hand, he helped himself to another drink, grateful to
the lethal liquor which dulled his thoughts. Yet, in spite of himself,
his clouded brain remained active. Memory slipped back ten years. If
only those years could be lived over again! How dearly he had paid for
the follies which had brought him where he was! Wild oats? Yes--he had
sown them in plenty, and a damnable harvest he had reaped! Things had
gone from bad to worse, until one day came the crisis. He was down and
out, almost starving, without a friend to extend a helping hand. After
he had fasted forty-eight hours, and the river seemed to be the only way
out, a barroom companion told him of a job as coal-passer on an ocean
liner which was to be had for the asking. He jumped eagerly at the
chance as a drowning man grasps at a drifting straw. At least, it would
mean temporary food and lodging. He was strong as an ox and could stand
the pace, no matter how hard the work was. Besides, hidden away in a
steamer's stoke-hold, he reckoned out that he would be dead to the
world. No one would think of seeking him there. The brutal work and
brutal companions would help him to forget the past.

For five long years he had stood it, but he could endure it no longer.
Five years of physical and mental torment, and the future--a hopeless
blank. The old days were wiped out completely, every decent tie
shattered forever. He could never redeem the past. He had joined the
vast army of life's failures, which goes marching on, silently, grimly
to perdition. The sooner the end came the better. He was weary of it
all. The best way would be to make an end of it at once. He knew he had
only himself to blame, but, like most men who have gone to the devil, he
held society responsible. The world is without pity for those who make
mistakes. The man who's down is given no mercy. They said he was
quarrelsome, a trouble-maker. So he was. In all these years of suffering
he had steeled his heart to hate his fellow man. He detested the rich,
idle class because he held it accountable for his present miserable
condition, and in obscure socialistic and anarchistic meetings in the
slu