rn with a silver spoon in your mouth."

"So I was," Paul declared from his innermost conviction. "But," he
laughed, "I lost it before my teeth came and I could get a grip on it."

"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Wilmer, "that you're not doing this for
fun?"

"Fun?" cried Paul. "Fun? Do you call this comic?" He waved his hand
comprehensively, indicating the decayed pink-and-purple wall-paper, the
ragged oil-cloth on the floor, the dingy window with its dingier
outlook, the rickety deal wash-stand with the paint peeling off, a
horrible clothless tray on a horrible splotchy chest of drawers,
containing the horrible scraggy remains of a meal. "Do you think I
would have this if I could command silken sloth? I long like hell, old
chap, for silken sloth, and if I could get it, you wouldn't see me
here."

Wilmer rose and stretched out his hand. "I'm sorry, dear boy," said he.
"The wife and I thought it didn't very much matter to you. We always
thought you were a kind of young swell doing it for amusement and
experience--and because you never put on side, we liked you."

Paul rose from the bed and put his hand on Wilmer's shoulder. "And now
you're disappointed?"

He laughed and his eyes twinkled humorously. His vagabond life had
taught him some worldly wisdom. The sallow and ineffectual man looked
confused. His misery was beyond the relief of smiles.

"We're all in the same boat, old chap," said Paul, "except that I'm
alone and haven't got wife and kids to look after."

"Good-bye, my boy," said Wilmer. "Better luck next time. But chuck it,
if you can."

Paul held his hand for a while. Then his left hand dived into his
waistcoat pocket and, taking the place of his right, thrust three
sovereigns into Wilmer's palm. "For the kiddies," said he.

Wilmer looked at the coins in his palm, and then at Paul, and the tears
spurted. "I can't, my boy. You must be as broke as any of us--you--half
salary--no, my boy, I can't. I'm old enough to be your father. It's
damned good of you--but it's my one pride left--the pride of both of
us--the missus and me--that we've never borrowed money--"

"But it isn't borrowed, you silly ass," cried Paul cheerfully. "It's
just your share of the spoils, such as they are. I wish to God it was
more." With both hands he clasped the thin, ineffectual fingers over
the coins and pushed the man' with his young strength out of the door.
"It's for the kiddies. Give them my love," he cried, and slammed the