So, on this beautiful autumn afternoon, walking in the midst of a public upheaval which he had produced, the cup of success held only bitter lees. Face to face with inevitable renunciation of his dearest hope, the present moment held no thrill. There was no rose, only the pallid gray; wan, cold ashes of endeavor. Through this damning thing he was doomed to walk alone in arid places, a soul cut off from Israel. A voice hailed him, recalling him to pulsing actualities. It was that of Mead, his fellow-worker upon the staff of the Courier. "Hello!" remarked Mead, shaking O'Byrn's hand. "Great story! You've won that bet, all right." "What bet?" returned Micky, listlessly. "Why, that Santa Claus bet about Shaughnessy," rejoined the other, producing a ten dollar bill. "You know, in the lunch room that time; that he'd get his. Well, you're a wizard and here you are. It's a little early, but Boynton's grave is waitin'. Don't be bashful. I've made twice the stuff already with outside specials on your story. Thought I'd pay you right up, maybe you could use it." "Thanks, Mead," replied Micky, wearily. "Why, yes, I can use it." "They're holdin' a pow-wow at the office," pursued Mead. "Harkins, he's walkin' on air. Everyone's speculatin' on how much they'll boost your pay. Wish I'd get half of it. But I'm a dub. Say, Glenwood's out of town. They sent him off on something growin' out of your yarn." "Sorry he's gone," replied Micky, moving on. "Give him my regards. So long, Mead." "Ain't he the foolish frost?" wondered Mead, staring curiously after the Irishman. "Doesn't seem to give a damn. Worryin' over his bat, likely. Why, bat or no bat, if I'd turned out that story, I'd--but I couldn't. Switch off!" He shook his head mournfully as he hurried up the street. O'Byrn proceeded to the writing room of a hotel where he penned three notes, sealed and stamped the envelopes, and slipped them into his pocket. Returning to the street he walked to the corner, stared absently about for a moment and then boarded a street car, harbor bound. A little later he sat upon the edge of the wharves, his feet dangling above the restless surface of the waters. The workaday bustle and confusion, the shrill cries of roustabouts mingling with the thumping din of manhandled freight, the clatter of trucks, the tramp of countless feet, the shrieks of whistles and hoarse growl of gongs; all these were as if they had not been to a mind capable of such absorption that it could, did occasion demand, work undisturbed in the thunderous roar of a rolling mill. So the lonely, meagre figure rested motionless in the midst of unrealized tumult, the sombre eyes gazed past the vessels thronging the waterway to some dim goal far beyond the humming ken of commerce, straight into the realm of dreams. The ears drank in only the murmur of lazy waters whispering about the piers in the wash of a falling tide, bearing the message of the sea.