them, Macauley spoke briskly:

"See here--I'm going to give you a bracer. I know your confounded
notions, but they don't cut any figure when you need something to pull
you together the way you do to-night."

He started to measure out the amber liquid into the glass, but Burns put
up a hand.

"Much obliged, but I don't want any."

"You idiot--don't you know when to make an exception to your rule? I
admit you've won out over the other fellows just by keeping a steady
hand, but you're dead as a dog for rest to-night and you need a stiff
one, if I'm any judge."

"You're not--for me." Burns sat up. "O Heavens, man, if I were going to
break my rule at all it wouldn't be for a drink of anything. It would be
for a stab in the arm with something that beats your stuff all out for
stimulating the fatigue out of a fellow and making him feel like working
till he drops."

"Why don't you have it then?" asked Macauley curiously. "I should think
if ever a used-up chap were justified in--"

"Don't give me that talk if you're my friend. It's hard enough to hold
out without resorting to that game. I don't need you to advise it. I've
seen enough of that sort of suicide. Buller and Fields are both down and
out, and they began to brace early in the epidemic. Van Horn's a wreck,
though he keeps going; and I tell you, I've more respect for that man
than I ever had before. He's a poseur and a toadier, no doubt of that,
and I've always despised him for it, but he has real ability and
he's worked like a fiend through this muss, and not all for his rich
patients, either. But he's weakening fast, and it's drug stimulation
that's done it. No, sir: not for mine. But I'll make myself a cup of
coffee, for I've got to keep awake, and I shall sleep in my tracks if I
don't."

He got up and stumbled out into his deserted kitchen. Macauley followed,
helping as best he knew how, and watched his friend gulp down two
cupfulls of a muddy liquid with feeling of admiration such as a small
act of large significance may sometimes stir in one who apprehends.

Two days later Burns, starting toward home in the Imp at a late hour in
the morning, passed a figure on a corner of a city street waiting for
the outward-bound trolley. He slowed down beside it.

"May I take you home?" he asked, cap in hand, and interest showing in
eyes which a moment before had been heavy with fatigue.

Ellen Lessing looked up. "I shall be very glad," she answered, as she
met his