little boys followed Henry Fenn about the streets laughing;
Henry Fenn, drunken and debased, whose heart was bleeding. It was late
in the afternoon when he appeared in the Amen Corner. His shooting stars
were all exploded from their rocket and he was fading into the charred
papier-mache of the reaction that comes from over exhilaration. So he
sat on the walnut bench, back of the newspaper counter with his hands on
his knees and his eyes staring at the floor while traffic flowed through
the establishment oblivious to his presence. Mr. Brotherton watched Fenn
but did not try to make him talk. There came a time when trade was slack
that Fenn looked for a minute fixedly at Mr. Brotherton, and finally
said, shaking his head sadly:

"She says I've got to quit!" A pause and another sigh, then: "She says
if I ever get drunk again, she'll quit me like a dog." Another
inspection of the floor; more lugubrious head-shaking followed, after
which the eyes closed and the dead voice spoke:

"Well, here's her chance. Say, George," he tried to smile, but the light
only flickered in his leaden eyes. "I guess I'm orey-eyed enough now to
furnish a correct imitation of a gentleman in his cups?"

Fenn got up, took Brotherton back among the books at the rear of the
store. The drunken man took from his pocket a fountain pen incased in a
silver mounting. He held the silver trinket up and said:

"Damn his soul to hell!"

"Let me see it--whose is it, Henry?" asked Brotherton. Fenn answered,
"That's my business." He paused; then added "and his business." Another
undecided moment, and then Fenn concluded: "And none of your business."

Suddenly he took his hands off the big man, and said, "I'm going home.
If she means business, here's her chance."

Brotherton tried to stop him, but Fenn was insistent. Customers were
coming in, and so Brotherton let the man go. But all the evening he was
worried about his friend. Absentmindedly he went over his stock,
straightening up _Puck_ and _Judge_ and _Truth_ and
_Life_, and putting the magazines in their places, sorting the new
books into their shelf, putting the standard pirated editions of English
authors in their proper place and squaring up the long rows of "The
Bonnie Brier Bush" and "A Hazard of New Fortunes" where they would catch
the buyers' eyes upon the counter, in freshly jostled ranks, even and
inviting, after the day's havoc in Harvey's literary circles. But always
Fenn's face was in Brother