Martin had encountered his sister Gertrude by chance on Broadway -
as it proved, a most propitious yet disconcerting chance. Waiting
on the corner for a car, she had seen him first, and noted the
eager, hungry lines of his face and the desperate, worried look of
his eyes. In truth, he was desperate and worried. He had just
come from a fruitless interview with the pawnbroker, from whom he
had tried to wring an additional loan on his wheel. The muddy fall
weather having come on, Martin had pledged his wheel some time
since and retained his black suit.

"There's the black suit," the pawnbroker, who knew his every asset,
had answered. "You needn't tell me you've gone and pledged it with
that Jew, Lipka. Because if you have - "

The man had looked the threat, and Martin hastened to cry:-

"No, no; I've got it. But I want to wear it on a matter of
business."

"All right," the mollified usurer had replied. "And I want it on a
matter of business before I can let you have any more money. You
don't think I'm in it for my health?"

"But it's a forty-dollar wheel, in good condition," Martin had
argued. "And you've only let me have seven dollars on it. No, not
even seven. Six and a quarter; you took the interest in advance."

"If you want some more, bring the suit," had been the reply that
sent Martin out of the stuffy little den, so desperate at heart as
to reflect it in his face and touch his sister to pity.

Scarcely had they met when the Telegraph Avenue car came along and
stopped to take on a crowd of afternoon shoppers. Mrs.
Higginbotham divined from the grip on her arm as he helped her on,
that he was not going to follow her. She turned on the step and
looked down upon him. His haggard face smote her to the heart
again.

"Ain't you comin'?" she asked

The next moment she had descended to his side.

"I'm walking - exercise, you know," he explained.

"Then I'll go along for a few blocks," she announced. "Mebbe it'll
do me good. I ain't ben feelin' any too spry these last few days."

Martin glanced at her and verified her statement in her general
slovenly appearance, in the unhealthy fat, in the drooping
shoulders, the tired face with the sagging lines, and in the heavy
fall of her feet, without elasticity - a very caricature of the
walk that belongs to a free and happy body.

"You'd better stop here," he said, though she had already come to a
halt at the first corner, "and take the next car."

"My goodness! - if I ain't all tired a'ready!" she panted. "But
I'm just as able to walk as you in them soles. They're that thin
they'll bu'st long before you git out to North Oakland."

"I've a better pair at home," was the answer.

"Come out to dinner to-morrow," she invited irrelevantly. "Mr.
Higginbotham won't be there. He's goin' to San Leandro on
business."

Martin shook his head, but he had failed to keep back the wolfish,
hungry look that leapt into his eyes at the suggestion of dinner.

"You haven't a penny, Mart, and that's why you're walkin'.
Exercise!" She tried to sniff contemptuously, but succeeded in
producing only a sniffle. "Here, lemme see."

And, fumbling in her satchel, she pressed a five-dollar piece into
his hand. "I guess I forgot your last birthday, Mart," she mumbled
lamely.

Martin's hand instinctively closed on the piece of gold. In the
same instant he knew he ought not to accept, and found himself
struggling in the throes of indecision. That bit of gold meant
food, life, and light in his body and brain, power to go on
writing, and - who was to say? - maybe to write something that
would bring in many pieces of gold. Clear on his vision burned the
manuscripts of two essays he had just completed. He saw them under
the table on top of the heap of returned manuscripts for which he
had no stamps, and he saw their titles, just as he had typed them -
"The High Priests of Mystery," and "The Cradle of Beauty." He had
never submitted them anywhere. They were as good as anything he
had done in that line. If only he had stamps for them! Then the
certitude of his ultimate success rose up in him, an able ally of
hunger, and with a quick movement he slipped the coin into his
pocket.

"I'll pay you back, Gertrude, a hundred times over," he gulped out,
his throat painfully contracted and in his eyes a swift hint of
moisture.

"Mark my words!" he cried with abrupt positiveness. "Before the
year is out I'll put an even hundred of those little yellow-boys
into your hand. I don't ask you to believe me. All you have to do
is wait and see."

Nor did she believe. Her incredulity made her uncomfortable, and
failing of other expedient, she said:-

"I know you're hungry, Mart. It's sticking out all over you. Come
in to meals any time. I'll send one of the children to tell you
when Mr. Higginbotham ain't to be there. An' Mart - "

He waited, though he knew in his secret heart what she was about to
say, so visible was her thought process to him.

"Don't you think it's about time you got a job?"

"You don't think I'll win out?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Nobody has faith in me, Gertrude, except myself." His voice was
passionately rebellious. "I've done good work already, plenty of
it, and sooner or later it will sell."

"How do you know it is good?"

"Because - " He faltered as the whole vast field of literature and
the history of literature stirred in his brain and pointed the
futility of his attempting to convey to her the reasons for his
faith. "Well, because it's better than ninety-nine per cent of
what is published in the magazines."

"I wish't you'd listen to reason," she answered feebly, but with
unwavering belief in the correctness of her diagnosis of what was
ailing him. "I wish't you'd listen to reason," she repeated, "an'
come to dinner to-morrow."

After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post-
office and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when,
later in the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at
the post-office to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes,
he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent
denomination.

It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met
Russ Brissenden. How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was
or what acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know. Nor had he
the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth. In short, Brissenden
struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly
dismissed from his mind. An hour later he decided that Brissenden
was a boor as well, what of the way he prowled about from one room
to another, staring at the pictures or poking his nose into books
and magazines he picked up from the table or drew from the shelves.
Though a stranger in the house he finally isolated himself in the
midst of the company, huddling into a capacious Morris chair and
reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket.
As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a caressing
movement, through his hair. Martin noticed him no more that
evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great
apparent success with several of the young women.

It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden
already half down the walk to the street.

"Hello, is that you?" Martin said.

The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside.
Martin made no further attempt at conversation, and for several
blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.

"Pompous old ass!"

The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled
Martin. He felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a
growing dislike for the other.

"What do you go to such a place for?" was abruptly flung at him
after another block of silence.

"Why do you?" Martin countered.

"Bless me, I don't know," came back. "At least this is my first
indiscretion. There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must
spend them somehow. Come and have a drink."

"All right," Martin answered.

The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his
acceptance. At home was several hours' hack-work waiting for him
before he went to bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume
of Weismann waiting for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer's
Autobiography, which was as replete for him with romance as any
thrilling novel. Why should he waste any time with this man he did
not like? was his thought. And yet, it was not so much the man nor
the drink as was it what was associated with the drink - the bright
lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of glasses, the warm and
glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men. That was
it, it was the voices of men, optimistic men, men who breathed
success and spent their money for drinks like men. He was lonely,
that was what was the matter with him; that was why he had snapped
at the invitation as a bonita strikes at a white rag on a hook.
Not since with Joe, at Shelly Hot Springs, with the one exception
of the wine he took with the Portuguese grocer, had Martin had a
drink at a public bar. Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving
for liquor such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need
for it. But just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for
the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such
a place was the Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in
capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda.

They talked. They talked about many things, and now Brissenden and
now Martin took turn in ordering Scotch and soda. Martin, who was
extremely strong-headed, marvelled at the other's capacity for
liquor, and ever and anon broke off to marvel at the other's
conversation. He was not long in assuming that Brissenden knew
everything, and in deciding that here was the second intellectual
man he had met. But he noted that Brissenden had what Professor
Caldwell lacked - namely, fire, the flashing insight and
perception, the flaming uncontrol of genius. Living language
flowed from him. His thin lips, like the dies of a machine,
stamped out phrases that cut and stung; or again, pursing
caressingly about the inchoate sound they articulated, the thin
lips shaped soft and velvety things, mellow phrases of glow and
glory, of haunting beauty, reverberant of the mystery and
inscrutableness of life; and yet again the thin lips were like a
bugle, from which rang the crash and tumult of cosmic strife,
phrases that sounded clear as silver, that were luminous as starry
spaces, that epitomized the final word of science and yet said
something more - the poet's word, the transcendental truth, elusive
and without words which could express, and which none the less
found expression in the subtle and all but ungraspable connotations
of common words. He, by some wonder of vision, saw beyond the
farthest outpost of empiricism, where was no language for
narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech, investing
known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin's
consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.

Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best
the books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a
living man for him to look up to. "I am down in the dirt at your
feet," Martin repeated to himself again and again.

"You've studied biology," he said aloud, in significant allusion.

To his surprise Brissenden shook his head.

"But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by
biology," Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare.
"Your conclusions are in line with the books which you must have
read."

"I am glad to hear it," was the answer. "That my smattering of
knowledge should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most
reassuring. As for myself, I never bother to find out if I am
right or not. It is all valueless anyway. Man can never know the
ultimate verities."

"You are a disciple of Spencer!" Martin cried triumphantly.

"I haven't read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his
'Education.'"

"I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly," Martin broke out
half an hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden's
mental equipment. "You are a sheer dogmatist, and that's what
makes it so marvellous. You state dogmatically the latest facts
which science has been able to establish only by E POSTERIORI
reasoning. You jump at correct conclusions. You certainly short-
cut with a vengeance. You feel your way with the speed of light,
by some hyperrational process, to truth."

"Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother
Dutton," Brissenden replied. "Oh, no," he added; "I am not
anything. It was a lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic
college for my education. Where did you pick up what you know?"

And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging
from a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the
overcoat on a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by
the freightage of many books. Brissenden's face and long, slender
hands were browned by the sun - excessively browned, Martin
thought. This sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that
Brissenden was no outdoor man. Then how had he been ravaged by the
sun? Something morbid and significant attached to that sunburn,
was Martin's thought as he returned to a study of the face, narrow,
with high cheek-bones and cavernous hollows, and graced with as
delicate and fine an aquiline nose as Martin had ever seen. There
was nothing remarkable about the size of the eyes. They were
neither large nor small, while their color was a nondescript brown;
but in them smouldered a fire, or, rather, lurked an expression
dual and strangely contradictory. Defiant, indomitable, even harsh
to excess, they at the same time aroused pity. Martin found
himself pitying him he knew not why, though he was soon to learn.

"Oh, I'm a lunger," Brissenden announced, offhand, a little later,
having already stated that he came from Arizona. "I've been down
there a couple of years living on the climate."

"Aren't you afraid to venture it up in this climate?"

"Afraid?"

There was no special emphasis of his repetition of Martin's word.
But Martin saw in that ascetic face the advertisement that there
was nothing of which it was afraid. The eyes had narrowed till
they were eagle-like, and Martin almost caught his breath as he
noted the eagle beak with its dilated nostrils, defiant, assertive,
aggressive. Magnificent, was what he commented to himself, his
blood thrilling at the sight. Aloud, he quoted:-


"'Under the bludgeoning of Chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.'"


"You like Henley," Brissenden said, his expression changing swiftly
to large graciousness and tenderness. "Of course, I couldn't have
expected anything else of you. Ah, Henley! A brave soul. He
stands out among contemporary rhymesters - magazine rhymesters - as
a gladiator stands out in the midst of a band of eunuchs."

"You don't like the magazines," Martin softly impeached.

"Do you?" was snarled back at him so savagely as to startle him.

"I - I write, or, rather, try to write, for the magazines," Martin
faltered.

"That's better," was the mollified rejoinder. "You try to write,
but you don't succeed. I respect and admire your failure. I know
what you write. I can see it with half an eye, and there's one
ingredient in it that shuts it out of the magazines. It's guts,
and magazines have no use for that particular commodity. What they
want is wish-wash and slush, and God knows they get it, but not
from you."

"I'm not above hack-work," Martin contended.

"On the contrary - " Brissenden paused and ran an insolent eye
over Martin's objective poverty, passing from the well-worn tie and
the saw-edged collar to the shiny sleeves of the coat and on to the
slight fray of one cuff, winding up and dwelling upon Martin's
sunken cheeks. "On the contrary, hack-work is above you, so far
above you that you can never hope to rise to it. Why, man, I could
insult you by asking you to have something to eat."

Martin felt the heat in his face of the involuntary blood, and
Brissenden laughed triumphantly.

"A full man is not insulted by such an invitation," he concluded.

"You are a devil," Martin cried irritably.

"Anyway, I didn't ask you."

"You didn't dare."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I invite you now."

Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the
intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.

Martin's fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in
his temples.

"Bosco! He eats 'em alive! Eats 'em alive!" Brissenden
exclaimed, imitating the SPIELER of a locally famous snake-eater.

"I could certainly eat you alive," Martin said, in turn running
insolent eyes over the other's disease-ravaged frame.

"Only I'm not worthy of it?"

"On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not
worthy." He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. "I confess
you made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are
aware of it are only ordinary phenomena, and there's no disgrace.
You see, I laugh at the conventional little moralities of the herd;
then you drift by, say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the
slave of the same little moralities."

"You were insulted," Brissenden affirmed.

"I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you
know. I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have
since learned. They are the skeletons in my particular closet."

"But you've got the door shut on them now?"

"I certainly have."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"Then let's go and get something to eat."

"I'll go you," Martin answered, attempting to pay for the current
Scotch and soda with the last change from his two dollars and
seeing the waiter bullied by Brissenden into putting that change
back on the table.

Martin pocketed it with a grimace, and felt for a moment the kindly
weight of Brissenden's hand upon his shoulder.