I know what I want!" he said breathlessly. He raised his head,
staring in front. "I suppose it will end me with the crowd. I suppose
that's true. Bojo, I know everything that it will do to me--everything.
I know it's suicide. But, Bojo, that doesn't do any good. Reasoning
doesn't do any good--what's got to be has got to be! Now I've told you.
You'll see it's no use."

"I hope it will work out better than we think," said Bojo, solemnly.
"And Gladys?"

"I wrote to her."

"When?"

"Yesterday." He hesitated. "Her letters and one or two things--they're
done up in a pile."

"I'll get them to her."

"Thank you." He turned. "I say, Bojo, stand by me in this, won't you?
I've got to have some one. Will you?"

"All right. I'll come."

* * * * *

At eleven o'clock in a little church up in Harlem he stood by DeLancy's
side while the words were said that he knew meant the end of all things
for him in the worldly world he had chosen for his own. It was more like
an execution, and Bojo had a guilty, horribly guilty, feeling, as though
he were participating in a crime.

"Louise looks beautiful," he found the heart to whisper.

"Yes, doesn't she?" said Fred gratefully, with such a sudden leap in the
eyes that Bojo felt something choking in his throat.

He waved them good-by after he had put them in the automobile, and took
Mrs. Varney and a Miss Dingler, the maid of honor, home in a taxi. It
was all very gloomy, shoddy, and depressing.

CHAPTER XXII

DORIS MEETS A CRISIS

It was toward the end of August, when the dry exhaustion of the summer
had begun to be touched with the healing cool of delicious nights, that
Bojo and Granning were lolling on the window-seat, busy at their pipes.
Below in the Court foggy shapes were sunk in cozy chairs under the
spread of the great cotton umbrella, and the languid echoes of
wandering, contented conversation came to them like the pleasant closing
sounds of the day across twilight fields--the homing jingle of cattle,
the returning creak of laden wagons seeking the barns, or a tiny distant
welcome from a barking throat.

"Ouf! It's good to get a lung-full of cool air again," said Bojo,
turning gratefully to an easier position.

"Well, how do you like being a horny-handed son of toil?" said Granning.

"I like it."

"You're through the worst of it now."

"It's sort of like being in training again," said Bojo reminiscently.
"Jove, how they