The
voice sounded strange, coming from the figure that it did.
I struck a match, and held it out to him, shaded by my hands. As the
faint light illumined his face, I started back, and let the match fall:--
"Harry!"
He answered with a short dry laugh. "I didn't know it was you," he said,
"or I shouldn't have stopped you."
"How has it come to this, old fellow?" I asked, laying my hand upon his
shoulder. His coat was unpleasantly greasy, and I drew my hand away
again as quickly as I could, and tried to wipe it covertly upon my
handkerchief.
"Oh, it's a long, story," he answered carelessly, "and too conventional
to be worth telling. Some of us go up, you know. Some of us go down.
You're doing pretty well, I hear."
"I suppose so," I replied; "I've climbed a few feet up a greasy pole, and
am trying to stick there. But it is of you I want to talk. Can't I do
anything for you?"
We were passing under a gas-lamp at the moment. He thrust his face
forward close to mine, and the light fell full and pitilessly upon it.
"Do I look like a man you could do anything for?" he said.
We walked on in silence side by side, I casting about for words that
might seize hold of him.
"You needn't worry about me," he continued after a while, "I'm
comfortable enough.
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