oring sleepers, and the air was very close and foul.

Dave sat down by the little table that fronted the open window and
rested his head on his hands. It was early spring; the snow was gone;
dazzling sunshine bathed the prairies in the distance, and near at hand
were the twitter of birds and the ripple of water. It was a day to be
alive and about.

But the young man's thoughts were not of the sunshine, nor the fields,
nor the water. He was recalling, with considerable effort, the events
of the previous night; piecing them together in impossible ways;
re-assorting them until they offered some sequence. The anger he had
felt toward Conward had subsided, but the sting of shame rankled in his
heart. He had no doubt that he had furnished the occasion for much
merriment upon the part of the young women, in which, quite probably,
Conward had joined.

"Fool," he said to himself. And because he could think of no more
specific expression to suit his feelings, and because expression of any
kind brought a sort of relief, he kept on repeating the word, "Fool,
fool, fool!" And as his self-condemnation gradually won him back to a
sense of perspective he became aware of the danger of his position. He
went over the events of the recent months, and tried to be rational.
He had left his ranch home to better himself, to learn things, to rise
to be somebody. He had worked harder than ever before, at more
disagreeable employment; he had lived in conditions that were almost
nauseating, and what had he learned? That you can't beat a card man at
his own game, price sixty dollars, and that the gallery seats are
cheaper, and sometimes safer, than the orchestra.

Then all of a sudden he thought of Reenie. He had not thought of her
much of late; he had been so busy in the days, and so tired at nights,
that he had not thought of her much. True, she was always in the back
of his mind; in his subconscious mind, perhaps, but he seemed to have
put her away, like his skill with revolver and lasso. Now she burst
upon him again with all that beauty and charm which had so magnetised
him in those glad, golden days, and the frank cleanness of her girlhood
made him disgusted and ashamed. It was to fit himself for her that he
had come to town, and what sort of mess was he making of it? He was
going down instead of up. He had squandered his little money, and now
he was squandering his life. He had been drunk. . .

Dave's nature was one in w