or the editors
refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself
and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail.
He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she
liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she
could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures,
and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic line
of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as he
read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he
read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind
when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque,
his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was
absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on
the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame. There was
the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not
worth while. All his exertion was used in washing other persons'
clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs.

He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and
answer Ruth's letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished
and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. "I guess
I'll go down and see how Joe's getting on," was the way he put it to
himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not
have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would
have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He
started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite
of himself as he neared the saloon.

"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.

Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling
his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.

"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.

The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for
him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.

"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up."

Joe hurried, and they drank together.

"The work did it, eh?" Joe queried.

Martin refused to discuss the matter.

"It's fair hell, I know," the other went on, "but I kind of hate to see
you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here's how!"

Martin drank on silently, biting out