The noon after his first venture he ate in a little lunch-room with Charley Moore and, watching him unspread the paper, waited for a remark about the hold-up of the day before. But either the hold-up was not mentioned or Charley wasn't interested. He turned listlessly to the sporting sheet, read Doctor Crane's crop of seasoned bromides, took in an editorial on ambition with his mouth slightly ajar, and then skipped to Mutt and Jeff. Poor Charley--with his faint aura of evil and his mind that refused to focus, playing a lifeless solitaire with cast-off mischief. Yet Charley belonged on the other side of the fence. In him could be stirred up all the flamings and denunciations of righteousness; he would weep at a stage heroine's lost virtue, he could become lofty and contemptuous at the idea of dishonor. On my side, thought Dalyrimple, there aren't any resting-places; a man who's a strong criminal is after the weak criminals as well, so it's all guerilla warfare over here. What will it all do to me? he thought with a persistent weariness. Will it take the color out of life with the honor? Will it scatter my courage and dull my mind?--despiritualize me completely--does it mean eventual barrenness, eventual remorse, failure? With a great surge of anger, he would fling his mind upon the barrier--and stand there with the flashing bayonet of his pride. Other men who broke the laws of justice and charity lied to all the world. He at any rate would not lie to himself. He was more than Byronic now: not the spiritual rebel, Don Juan; not the philosophical rebel, Faust; but a new psychological rebel of his own century--defying the sentimental a priori forms of his own mind--- Happiness was what he wanted--a slowly rising scale of gratifications of the normal appetites--and he had a strong conviction that the materials, if not the inspiration of happiness, could be bought with money. V The night came that drew him out upon his second venture, and as he walked the dark street he felt in himself a great resemblance to a cat--a certain supple, swinging litheness. His muscles were rippling smoothly and sleekly under his spare, healthy flesh--he had an absurd desire to bound along the street, to run dodging among trees, to turn "cart-wheels" over soft grass. It was not crisp, but in the air lay a faint suggestion of acerbity, inspirational rather than chilling. "The moon is down--I have not heard the clock!" He laughed in delight at the line which an early memory had endowed with a hushed awesome beauty. He passed a man and then another a quarter of mile afterward.