"You see--it's this way. Three years back now--Armstrong was a minor, anyway, and not responsible for the money if he chose to put it that way. But he put a bet on Belle Noir--a pretty big bet--we fellows sort o' goaded him to it,--and he lost. Plumb five hundred dollars he lost, sir! And if you'll believe me, he wrote a letter to Keats--Keats backed Charlie Boy--saying he had no mind to ask his governor for the money, that betting was against his conscience, anyway, but that, as his honor demanded that he pay up, he earnestly requested for time to do it in. Well, Keats said he'd give him time. He was going abroad and he'd give him till he came back. Now, sir, that was three years ago, and Armstrong's never given a sign. I met Keats in New York last week, and he said he meant to come down here and see Armstrong. He says he hates a sneak. That's what I meant to tell Armstrong to-night; that Keats is coming here. You see, nobody knows a word about it but us three. By the bye, I guess you'd better not mention it. I don't want to make trouble." "You certainly have astounded me, sir," affirmed Peter Weaver. "Mr. Armstrong's the very last person I'd have suspected of ever getting into such a box as this. And five hundred dollars, too. That's a mighty big lot of money to throw away." "If he's saving up his salary to pay it it'll take him rather awhile to get it together," grinned Beesly. "What does he get for preaching?" "We pay our preacher two hundred and fifty dollars a year, sir. And perquisites," he added, as the drummer gave a significant whistle. "There are perquisites--there'd be more if he got married"-- "Perhaps he will before long. There are pretty gals down here. Cousin Amanda's girl is a thundering beauty. I shouldn't wonder if Armstrong had got his eyes set that way. Little mite strait-laced, though, is Nellie. By George, what'd she say if she knew the preacher used to bet on horses? Reformed, didn't he?" "Mr. Armstrong's said to have experienced sanctification," said Peter, slowly. "Oh, come, now, that's too good," shouted the commercial traveler. "There may be such a thing; I'm called skeptical myself. But whether there is or not, there's goodness. And for my part, I believe Mr. Armstrong's an upright, moral, well-meaning man, and it's the duty of his friends to stand by him," said Peter Weaver. But deep down in his heart was a cry. The preacher was, then, in love with Nellie: did Nellie love the preacher? VI. THE hardest thing in the world to bear is self-contempt. The man or woman who has once slipped from his own standard of rectitude--whatever it is--has henceforth in his soul a little Inferno where desperate desire is continually carrying a huge stone up a hill and memory is as continually rolling it down again.