e
of the morning, and he sat thinking.

His thoughts were black and bitter--as how indeed should they be
otherwise? He had come to this place to make one final effort to
retrieve his fortunes. That effort had failed. He had put what little
remained to him into various companies--awaiting the boom--and no boom
had ensued. On the contrary, things had never looked more dead than at
this moment, never since the Rand had been opened up. The bulk of the
scrip owned by him was now barely saleable at any price; for the residue
he might have obtained a quarter of the price he had paid for it. He was
ruined.

He was not alone in this--not by a very large number. But what sort of
consolation was that? He had received letters too by the last mail.
Money! money! That was their burden. He tossed them aside half read.
What mattered anything? The accursed luck which had followed him
throughout life had stuck to him most consistently--would do so until
the end. The end? Ha, had not "the end" come? What more was left? More
squalor, more deterioration--gradually dragging him down, down. Heaven
knew what he might come to, what final degradation might not be his. The
end? Yes, better let it be the end--now, here--while in the full
possession of his faculties, in the full possession of the dignity of
his self-respect. The dead blank hopelessness of life! Better end it,
now, here.

He rose and went to the open door. All was quiet. The occupants of the
other rooms were away, drowning their cares in liquor saloons, or
feverishly hanging around 'Change to grasp at any possible straw. He was
about to close the door. No, it had better remain as it was. The thing
would look more accidental that way.

He returned into the room, and unlocking his portmanteau, took out a
six-shooter. It was loaded in every chamber, for in those days such a
companion was not far from a necessity in the great restless gold-town.
He sat down at the table, and, placing the weapon in front of him,
passed his fingers up and down the blue shiny metal in a strange,
half-meditative way. Then, grasping the butt, he placed the muzzle
against his forehead.

The hard metal imprinted a cold ring just between the eyes. He did not
flinch at the grisly contact. His hand was as firm as a rock. He must
depress the muzzle just a trifle--it would make more certain. He began
to press the trigger, ever so faintly, then a little more firmly,
strangely wondering how much more impercept