In my credulous years--he thought--they told me that evil was a sort of dirty hue, just as definite as a soiled collar, but it seems to me that evil is only a manner of hard luck, or heredity-and-environment, or "being found out." It hides in the vacillations of dubs like Charley Moore as certainly as it does in the intolerance of Macy, and if it ever gets much more tangible it becomes merely an arbitrary label to paste on the unpleasant things in other people's lives. In fact--he concluded--it isn't worth worrying over what's evil and what isn't. Good and evil aren't any standard to me--and they can be a devil of a bad hindrance when I want something. When I want something bad enough, common sense tells me to go and take it--and not get caught. And then suddenly Dalyrimple knew what he wanted first. He wanted fifteen dollars to pay his overdue board bill. With a furious energy he jumped from the fence, whipped off his coat, and from its black lining cut with his knife a piece about five inches square. He made two holes near its edge and then fixed it on his face, pulling his hat down to hold it in place. It flapped grotesquely and then dampened and clung clung to his forehead and cheeks. Now . . . The twilight had merged to dripping dusk . . . black as pitch. He began to walk quickly back toward town, not waiting to remove the mask but watching the road with difficulty through the jagged eye-holes. He was not conscious of any nervousness . . . the only tension was caused by a desire to do the thing as soon as possible. He reached the first sidewalk, continued on until he saw a hedge far from any lamp-post, and turned in behind it. Within a minute he heard several series of footsteps--he waited--it was a woman and he held his breath until she passed . . . and then a man, a laborer. The next passer, he felt, would be what he wanted . . . the laborer's footfalls died far up the drenched street . . . other steps grew nears grew suddenly louder. Dalyrimple braced himself. "Put up your hands!" The man stopped, uttered an absurd little grunt, and thrust pudgy arms skyward. Dalyrimple went through the waistcoat. "Now, you shrimp," he said, setting his hand suggestively to his own hip pocket, "you run, and stamp--loud! If I hear your feet stop I'll put a shot after you!" Then he stood there in sudden uncontrollable laughter as audibly frightened footsteps scurried away into the night. After a moment he thrust the roll of bills into his pocket, snatched off his mask, and running quickly across the street, darted down an alley. IV Yet, however Dalyrimple justified himself intellectually, he had many bad moments in the weeks immediately following his decision. The tremendous pressure of sentiment and inherited ambition kept raising riot with his attitude. He felt morally lonely.