“I have enough,” said Wilfred swiftly. “We can stop at night in farmhouses. I’m damn glad you brought him.” He looked over the parapet. “What a splendid young creature, eh, Stanny?” “I suppose so,” said Stanny, dismally refusing to look. “I hadn’t thought of it. Hadn’t thought of anything at all.” “One could make a friend of him,” said Wilfred. “Oh, you could!” said Stanny, sneering. Wilfred flung an arm around his old friend’s shoulders, and gave him a shake. Stanny looked pettish—a sign that he was on the way to being mollified. Taswell came springing up the bank. He already felt better, but refused to admit it. They walked on. Conversation did not flourish as yet; but the two men from town took out their pipes, and that was a hopeful sign. Wilfred was content to bide his time. Stanny had given him much to think about. These two had been down into the depths, yet he profoundly respected them. They were men. They were capable of descending into the depths. He felt like a spore of thistledown alongside them. They were forthright; they were single-minded; they would break before they bent. Whereas he!—he was of a dozen minds, and was continually on the rebound. A knockout blow! Once he had received a knockout blow, and had turned around and made a happy marriage. Oh, he was all right, he thought, smiling ironically at himself, but without bitterness; so things were! He was sure to keep a toehold in society sufficient to obtain in the end a respectable funeral! . . . But what of his two friends? What of Stanny whom he knew so well? He ached with compassion. What could a man do to save his friends? Why nothing, of course. Except to be fond of them. He would have loved to slip an arm through one of theirs on either side; but he suspected they wouldn’t like it. * * * * * The three friends were sitting in the general room of a miserable village drinking-place which called itself hotel. After all, they had not stopped at a farmhouse, because, as Wilfred knew, in a friendly farmhouse one must pay for one’s entertainment with sociability; and Stanny and Taswell were short of this coin at present. They had secured a double room in this poor place for a dollar. They were the only lodgers. They were seated at a bare table with glasses of beer before them. From the bar adjoining came the sounds of loud, empty voices; but they were alone. It was a dreary room; ugly to start with, and worth nobody’s while to keep tidy and clean. There was the usual little desk with a worn book, which had served as a register for many years, and was not yet full; a rusty cigar-lighter; and a glass inkwell, caked with dried spillings. There was another table covered with opened newspapers; and wooden chairs standing about; “hotel” chairs with round backs. On the soiled walls hung an old railway map and a garish calendar.