mall."

Thus he got on comfortably enough during the daylight waking hours.
But the fear that had gone out of the days had made its home in the
night. Sleep was now its stronghold.

His dreams were terrible. They were like immense highly-colored
fabrics reeling off the vast gray thought-loom--that dreadful thought
machine that worked as well when the workshop was darkened as when
all the lamps were burning. Their pattern displayed infinite variety
of detail, but a constant similarity in the main design.

They began by his being happy and light-hearted, that is, he was
_innocent_; and then gradually the horrible fact returned to his
memory. Recently, or a long time ago, he had killed a man. That was
always the end of the dream; his lightness and gaiety of spirits
vanished, and he felt again the load that he was eternally forced to
carry on his conscience.

The details of one form in which the dream worked itself out were
repeated hundreds of times. There was a strange man who at first made
himself extremely agreeable, and yet in spite of all his amiability
Dale did not like him. Nevertheless there was some mysterious
necessity to keep friends with him, even to kow-tow to him. And Dale
gradually felt sure that he and this man had met before, and that the
man knew it, but for some sinister purpose concealed his knowledge.
They went about together in gay and lively scenes, and the man grew
more and more hateful to Dale--becoming insolent, making disparaging
remarks, sneering openly; and laughing when Dale only tittered in a
nervous way and swallowed all insults. And Dale could not do
otherwise, because he was afraid of the man.

And finally this false friend disclosed his true hostile character in
some strikingly painful manner.

For instance, the man would make Dale take off his boots for him in
some public place. They were together in a place like the lounge of
some grand music-hall; the electric light shone brilliantly, a band
played at a distance, the gaily dressed crowd gathered round
them--young London swells with white waistcoats, pretty painted women,
old men and young girls, and all of them watching, all contemptuously
amused, all grinning because they understood that, though so big and
strong, he was at heart a pitiful sort of poltroon, and that his
companion was showing him up publicly. "Yes, you shall take my boots
off for me. That's all you're fit for." And in spite of his anguish of
resentment, Dale da