"Well, to tell the truth I owed a few little bills back at Great River and I settled up, like any square man would." "If you told the truth, you'd say you drank up what you hadn't gambled away." Wheaton moved toward the door. "At eight to-morrow night." "Make it two hundred, Jim," whined Snyder. Wheaton paused in the door; Snyder had followed him. They were the same height as they stood up together. "That's too much money to trust you with." "The more money the farther I can get," pleaded Snyder. "I'll be here at eight to-morrow evening," said Wheaton, "and you stay here until I come." "Give me a dollar on account; I haven't a cent." "You're better off that way; I want to find you sober to-morrow night." He went out and closed the door after him. Two or three men who were sitting in the office below eyed Wheaton curiously as he went out. The thought that they might recognize him from his portraits in the papers pleased him. He retraced his steps from the hotel and boarded a car filled with people of the laboring class who were returning from an outing in the suburbs. They were making merry in a strange tongue, and their boisterous mirth was an offense to him. He was a gentleman of position returning from an errand of philanthropy, and he remained on the platform, where the atmosphere was purer than that within, which was contaminated by the rough young Swedes and their yellow-haired sweethearts. When he reached The Bachelors' the dozing Chinaman told him that all the others were out. He went to his room and spent the rest of the evening reading a novel which he had heard Evelyn Porter mention the night that he had dined at her house. The next day he bought a ticket to Spokane, and drew one hundred dollars from his account in the bank. He went at eight o'clock to the Occidental to keep his appointment, and found Snyder patiently waiting for him in the hotel office, holding a shabby valise between his knees. "You'll have to pay my bill before I take this out," said Snyder grinning, and Wheaton gave him money and waited while he paid at the counter. The proprietor recognized Wheaton and nodded to him. Questions were not asked at the Occidental. At the railway station Wheaton stepped inside the door and pulled two sealed envelopes from his pocket. "Here's your ticket, and here's your money. The ticket's good through to Spokane; and that's your train, the first one in the shed. Now I want you to understand that this is the last time, Billy; you've got to work and make your own living. I can't do anything more for you; and what's more, I won't." "All right, Jim," said Snyder. "You won't ever lose anything by helping me along. You're in big luck and it ain't going to hurt you to give me a little boost now and then." "This is the last time," said Wheaton, firmly, angry at Snyder's hint for further assistance. Snyder put out his hand. "Good by, Jim," he said. "Good by, Billy."