Outside the mission-hall in the gently-raining April night, James Dodson, with his coat collar turned up over his ears and his hat pulled down over his eyes, lay in waiting for his friend. Upon beholding this woe-begone figure William Jordan gave a start of surprise. “Why, Jimmy,” he said, “why do you come here now?” “As I was half-way through the performance at the Alcazar,” said Jimmy Dodson apprehensively, “I had a sort of presentiment. Something seemed to tell me, Luney, that after to-night I might never see you again. Something seemed to tell me that you were going away.” “Nature has certainly spoken to me,” said William Jordan. “That doesn’t mean, Luney, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson in a voice not the least like his own, “that you intend to desert an old friend?” “To-morrow at dawn I obey her decree,” said William Jordan. “You don’t mean to say you are going away!” cried Jimmy Dodson. “Yes--for a little while.” “But--but,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I don’t think I could bear it if you were never to come back. You see, Luney, old boy--well, you see--well, somehow, I can’t explain it--_but--if--you--were--never--to--come --back_!” The voice of Jimmy Dodson was slow-drawn like a wail. It pierced William Jordan to the heart. Tears leaped to the eyes of the young man, but in the darkness his stricken companion could not see them. “Luney,” said Jimmy Dodson, “will you promise that you will come back?” “I promise,” said the young man. “Honour bright, you know, honest Injun,” said Dodson anxiously. “Honest Injun, Jimmy,” said William Jordan, with a strange smile in his eyes. “Give me your hand on it, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson; “although I am sure you wouldn’t play it low down on an old pal.” William Jordan yielded to his friend’s importunity. Dodson shuddered. “Why, old boy,” he said, “it is so cold--so cold. Ugh, it is like ice.” William Jordan kissed his friend in the darkness. “And--and,” cried Dodson, “your lips burn like a fire.” The two friends walked along in a silence. After they had proceeded a long distance in this fashion through the wet midnight streets, the thin and high-strung tones of Jimmy Dodson were heard again in the darkness. “Luney,” he said in a voice that seemed to over-tax his powers of utterance, “I always used to wonder what made me take up with a chap like you; but since you came out of prison I have done nothing but wonder what made you take up with a chap like me.” “You are one of the links in the chain,” said William Jordan, “one of the stages in the journey.” “I don’t understand you at all,” said Jimmy Dodson. “Perhaps it is well,” said William Jordan.