“What matter a few dollars now?” he replied sadly. “It's in three months that the pull comes, Loudon.” We walked on again in silence, not without a shiver. Even at the Poodle Dog, we took our food with small appetite and less speech; and it was not until he was warmed with a third glass of champagne that Pinkerton cleared his throat and looked upon me with a deprecating eye. “Loudon,” said he, “there was a subject you didn't wish to be referred to. I only want to do so indirectly. It wasn't”--he faltered--“it wasn't because you were dissatisfied with me?” he concluded, with a quaver. “Pinkerton!” cried I. “No, no, not a word just now,” he hastened to proceed. “Let me speak first. I appreciate, though I can't imitate, the delicacy of your nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it, and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B. Longhurst--a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters--weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and--I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better--but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best.” “My poor Jim,” said I, “as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy and resource. And as for that affair----” “No, Loudon, no more, not a word more! I don't want to hear,” cried Jim. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you,” said I; “for it's a thing I'm ashamed of.” “Ashamed, Loudon? O, don't say that; don't use such an expression even in jest!” protested Pinkerton. “Do you never do anything you're ashamed of?” I inquired. “No,” says he, rolling his eyes. “Why? I'm sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I can't see what I would want to be ashamed for.” I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's character. Then I sighed. “Do you know, Jim, what I'm sorriest for?” said I. “At this rate, I can't be best man at your marriage.” “My marriage!” he repeated, echoing the sigh. “No marriage for me now. I'm going right down to-night to break it to her. I think that's what's shaken me all day. I feel as if I had had no right (after I was engaged) to operate so widely.” “Well, you know, Jim, it was my doing, and you must lay the blame on me,” said I. “Not a cent of it!” he cried. “I was as eager as yourself, only not so bright at the beginning. No; I've myself to thank for it; but it's a wrench.”