tlessly. "Never heard you come in."

"That's obvious. But--about yourself?"

The Boy choked down a sigh.

"Why the deuce should I bore you with myself, when you're hot and
tired? I've been a confounded fool; if not worse, and the devil's in
the luck wherever I turn."

But Desmond waited in expectant silence for the Boy's trouble to
overflow. While he waited, the coveted "drink" arrived, and he emptied
the long tumbler almost at a gulp. The station had run out of ice--a
cheerful habit of Frontier stations; but at least the liquid was cool
and stinging.

"Well?" he said at length, Denvil having returned to his former
attitude. "I want something more explicit. How am I to help you, if
you slam the door in my face?"

"Don't see how you can help me. I've only been ... a great many kinds
of a fool: and _you_----"

"Well, what of me? I've been plenty of kinds of fool in my time, I
assure you. Money's the backbone of your trouble, no doubt. Nothing
worse, I hope?"

Denvil's honest eyes met his own without flinching.

"No, on my honour--nothing worse. The money's bad enough." And the
trouble came out in a quick rush of words--explanatory, contrite,
despairing--all in one breath. For the Boy had Irish blood in his
veins; and the initial difficulty over, he found it an unspeakable
relief to disburden his soul to the man who had "brothered" him ever
since he joined the Force.

Desmond, perceiving that the overflow, once started, was likely to be
exhaustive and complete, took out pipe and tobacco, balanced himself
on the arm of a chair, and listened gravely to the Boy's disjointed
story.

It was a long story, and a commonplace one, if even the most trivial
record of human effort and failure can be so styled. It was the story
of half the subalterns in our Imperial Army--of small pay, engulfed by
heavy expenses, avoidable and unavoidable; the upkeep of much needless
uniform; too big a wine bill at Mess; polo ponies, and other luxurious
necessities of Indian life, bought on credit; the inevitable appeal to
the "_shroff_,"[21] involving interest upon interest; the final
desperate attempt to mend matters by high stakes at cards, and fitful,
injudicious backing of horses, most often with disastrous results.

[21] Native money-lender.

"Have you the smallest idea what the total damage amounts to?" asked
Desmond, when all was said. "I'm bound to know everything now."

Denvil nodded.

"Close on fifteen hundred, I think,"