“I haven't any scrub friends,” said Floyd, with feeling. “I don't know that you boast of your ancestry, Pole, but you are as high above the kind of man that does as the stars are above the earth.” “Now you are a-kiddin' me!” said Baker. He put out his hand on the table and felt something smooth and cool under his touch. He drew it to him. It was a pint flask filled with whiskey. He held it up with a laugh. “Good Lord, what are you doin' with this bug-juice?” he asked. “Oh, you mean that bottle of rye,” said Floyd. “I've kept that for a memento of the day I swore off, Pole, five years ago. I thought as long as I could pass it day after day and never want to uncork it, that it was a sign I was safely anchored to sobriety.” There was a little squeak like that of a frightened mouse. Pole had twisted the cork out and was holding the neck of the bottle to his nose. “Gee whiz!” he exclaimed. “That stuff smells _fine!_ You say it's five years old, Nelson?” “Yes, it's almost old enough to vote,” Floyd laughed. “It was very old and mellow when I got it.” The cork squeaked again Pole had stopped the bottle. It lay flat under his big, pulsating hand. His fingers played over it caressingly. “I wouldn't advise you to keep it under yore eye all the time, Nelson,” he said. “I tried that dodge once an' it got the best o' my determination.” “I sometimes feel the old desire come over me,” said Floyd; “often when my mind is at rest after work, and even while I am at it, but it is never here in my room in the presence of that memento. It seems to make a man of me. I pity a drinking man, Pole. I know what he has to fight, and I feel now that if I were to lose all hope in life that I'd take to liquor as naturally as a starving man would to food.” “I reckon,” said Pole, in a strange, stilled voice. His fingers were now tightly clasped about the bottle. There was a pause, then he slid it cautiously--very cautiously--towards him. He swallowed something that was in his throat; his eyes were fixed in a great, helpless stare on the dim figure across the room. Noiselessly the bottle was raised, and noiselessly it went down into the pocket of his coat. “I feel like I owe you my life, Pole,” Floyd continued, earnestly. “You've done to-day what no one else could have done. If that old man had died without speaking of this matter I'd perhaps never have known the truth. Pole, you can call on me for anything you want that is in my power to give. Do you understand me, Pole, old friend?--anything--anything!” There was silence. Pole sat staring vacantly in front of him. Floyd rose in slow surprise and came across the room. Pole stood up suddenly, his hand on the weighty pocket. Quickly he shifted to a darker portion of the room nearer the door. “What's the matter, Pole?” Floyd asked, in surprise. “Matter? Why, nothin', Nelson.” Baker laughed mechanically. “I was jest thinkin' that I ought to be in bed. I've told you all I kin, I guess.”