e he checked himself, appalled.
Cigars had not been included in the estimate of his daily needs. Cigars
he recognized as a luxury. He left the place, determined but physically
unhappy. The real test was to come.

The smoking habit affects different men in different ways. To some
tobacco is a stimulant, to others a narcotic. The first class can
abandon tobacco more easily than can the second. The man to whom
tobacco is a stimulant becomes sleepy and dull when he ceases its use,
and days ensue before he brightens up on a normal plane. To the one who
finds it a narcotic, the abandonment of tobacco means inviting the
height of all nervousness. To George Henry tobacco had been a narcotic,
and now his nerves were set on edge. He had pluck, though, and irritable
and suffering, endured as well as he could. At length came, as will come
eventually in the case of every healthy man persisting in self-denial,
surcease of much sorrow over tobacco, but in the interval George Henry
had a residence in purgatory, rent free.

And so--these incidents are but illustrative--the man forced himself
into a more or less philosophical acceptance of the new life to which
necessity had driven him. If he did not learn to like it, he at least
learned to accept its deprivations without a constant grimace.

But more than mere physical self-denial is demanded of the man on the
down grade. The plans of his intellect a failure, he turns finally to
the selling of the labor of his body. This selling of labor may seem an
easy thing, but it is not so to the man with neither training nor skill
in manual labor of any sort. George Henry soon learned this lesson, and
his heart sank within him. He had reached the end of things. He had
tried to borrow what he needed, and failed. His economies had but
extended his lease of tolerable life.

Shabby and hungry, he sought a "job" at anything, avoiding all
acquaintances, for his pride would not allow him to make this sort of an
appeal to them. Daily he looked among strangers for work. He found none.
It was a time of business and industrial depression, and laborers were
idle by thousands. He envied the men working on the streets relaying the
pavements. They had at least a pittance, and something to do to distract
their minds.

Weeks and months went by. George Henry now lived and slept in his little
office, the rent of which he had paid some months in advance before the
storms of poverty began to beat upon him. Here,