“A real man always says that, Davy. A real man will hold a place for you. And I thought, as I saw Stackhouse die and remembered his life, that he was the saddest and most terrible animal in human form. He was a glutton and a coward, but mainly he broke his own heart and not others. He was a slave to his stomach, but there was life, not creeping death, in his mind. I saw the pictures that moved there, low, vivid pictures, animal dreams, but he was not a destroyer of children or a breaker of the hearts of men. Low Nature was loose in him, but it was not a predatory instinct alone. Having enough, he could give. He could give fifty thousand dollars and a wallet full of valuable papers for a bottle of whiskey--but the Lots and the Wetherbees would have died clutching their money. I learned Stackhouse, Davy--only to understand that there is a depth below his. I think I should have taken you out somehow--if they hadn’t let you go----” Davy asked questions, and the story came better and better. The thing that held him especially was the last days in the open boat. “And did you really suffer less when you decided to make it a fast?” “Yes, that was true in my case. Many have set out to fast ten days, and done with as little as we did. Of course it was harrowing, because we didn’t know when it would end; then the little baby was there, and the mother.” “And you think _he_ was really as happy as he said?” “Davy, lad, Fleury was a prince. He would have given you his shirt. He had himself going so strong _for us_--that the fire of happiness ran through him. I’ll give you some books about that. It’s really a fact. You can’t suffer pain, when you’ve got something really fine up your sleeve for another. Perhaps you’ve felt it at Christmas----” “You’re all out of yourself-like----” “That’s it,” said the man. More words would have stuck in his throat. Davy got it--got something of it. Bellair had come to ask so little, that this seemed a great deal.... He followed Davy down and into the street. It was still two hours before he was due at the _Castle_. “How long does it take to get to your house, Davy?” “About twenty-five minutes. It’s ’way down town.” “Suppose I should go home and meet your mother. I have the time----” “Yes, come with me. She will be watching.” They passed a delicatessen-store, ripe cherries in the window, and a counter full of provisions that would have been far more thrilling had they not dined so well. “Do you suppose we might take home an armful of these things?” Bellair asked. Davy dissuaded weakly.... That clerk must have thought him mad, for Bellair merely pointed to bottles and jars and baskets--until they were both loaded. There was a kind of passion about it for the man. He hated to stop; in fact did not, until it occurred to him that this was not the last night of the world, and that Davy doubtless required many more substantial matters, which would furnish a rapturous forenoon among the stores--to-morrow forenoon....