ver refused a loan.

On the evening of which we speak Harland sat languidly waiting for a
friend who had an appointment to accompany him to the club. It was
early, scarcely eight, and he aimlessly fingered a loose roll of bills
in his waistcoat pocket, smiled inanely at the man behind the desk, and
then, despairing of entertainment, began to spin a trade-dollar on the
polished table. The cafe was nearly empty, and he was to all purposes
alone. This was a state which he dreaded above all others. Like
Napoleon, in the company of even one he felt an inspiring confidence and
security. When he was with people, he forgot that whiskey was an
insisting necessity: he only thought he drank because he was a good
fellow and "one of the boys."

Harland had never been visited by the uttermost penalty of his
condition. It cannot be said that he never feared that state whose ugly
name we omit when we can, or reduce to its significant initials; as if
that reduced the horror of the fact. But he feared it: he feared it
greatly. The possibility of delirium tremens unmanned him. Then he sweat
drops of apprehension, and with vague, shuffling remorse promised
himself to improve. He possessed all the weakness of Sydney Carton with
none of that martyr's pathetic nobility or ability.

Harland Slack sat alone and began to scowl at the bottle of Apollinaris.
His weak face looked haggard. Perhaps he felt that he had cast the key
of his tomb through the grated door after he had immured himself within.
He glared at the whiskey, and his thoughts cursed it; then he smiled and
took another swallow. Even as he drank his mind wandered back to his
college days when he was unimplicated in high treason against himself.
He could not help remembering, sometimes: he seldom thought of the
future.

The door opened. He tossed the remainder of his glass off, and looked
around, expecting his companion. Then he turned back, disappointed. Then
he looked again.

A stalwart man entered with an air of vitality which is often mistaken
for authority. The vigorous development of his body gave a startling
impression of height and power. He was dressed with elegant negligence.
His dark beard was cut to a point, and he looked like a Parisian artist.
Black eyes from under the brim of a silk hat compelled attention by
reason of an imperious steadiness that indicated the possession of
unusual self-control. The waiters jumped to serve this man. Harland was
annoyed at this ob