"Yes, and hard pressed by the enemy. But they have made their enemy powerful—have built up their necessities. Once a shadow lay upon the ground, a harmless thing; but they breathed hot breath upon it and it became a thing of life, jumped up and took after them. I hate the whole scheme." He waved his hand, and Howard sat looking at him—at the hair curling about his forehead, at his Greek nose; and he wondered why one so seemingly fitted for the chase should express such contempt for it. He spoke of it, and Goyle turned toward him with a cold smile. "You have heard," said he, "of the fellow who would rather be a cat in hell without claws. Well, that’s what I am, and where I am when thrown out there." He nodded toward the street, and then lazily taking out a cigarette, lighted it. "I don’t believe that," said Howard. "I believe that you are well fitted, except, possibly, by disposition. You lack patience." "Patience! It doesn’t admit of patience. Do those fellows out there look patient?" "A man may run and be patient." "And he may also run and be a fool." "Or be a bigger fool and not run. I am a believer in the world—in man." "I’m not," said Goyle. "I know that the world is a trap and that man is caught. Puppies play, but the old dog lies down. He knows that life is a farce." "The old dog lies down, it is true," Howard replied, "but he dreams of his youth and barks in his dream." "And calls himself a fool when he awakes. It is the same with the old man. There comes a time when he loses confidence even in those who are nearest him." Out of the sharp corner of his eye he shot a glance at Howard and saw his countenance change. An old man, shriveled and wretched, with feather dusters for sale, came shambling into the room. Goyle glanced at him, and when he was gone, turned to Howard and said: "Ask his opinion of the world. He is your old dog who dreamed and barked in his dream." "Goyle, I don’t like the position you take. My experience and my reading teach me better." Goyle glanced at him again. "Your reading, because what you read was written to flatter hope—to sell. Your experience is not ripe. It is not even green fruit. It is a bud. Oh, of course there are some old men, your father, for instance, who—" "Well, what about him?" "Nothing, only he is by nature fitted to smile at everything." Howard got up, went over to a bookcase, took down a book, put it back, went to the open door, and stood there looking at a doctor’s sign, just across the hall. Goyle got up with a yawn, came walking slowly toward the door, and Howard, hearing him, but without looking round, stepped aside to let him pass out. In the hall he halted to repeat that he would return during the afternoon. "You have the privilege to come and go as often as you like, being George’s friend," said Howard, "but, so far as you and I are concerned, I don’t think we are suited to each other."