The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1901-12-07
OLD BALE.

| III D. Lowry, in The Candid Friend
| They had been turning out the lights
one by one for some few minutes, and
now the cries of Time, please, gents!'
became urgent Old Bale, who had sat
rejecting moodily in corner, tossed
| off his drink and went out into the
| streets, where a drizzling rain was fall
ing He had gone only a few yards,
when he came to another public house,
where they did not seem to have been
so prompt in their obedience to the law
He tried to enter and snatch a last
drink, but a man barred the entrance.
| law right, guv'nor," he said, I'VE
don't open until in the morning.
You're bit early
Old Bale turned away, hating the
mans coarse familiarity. and proceeded
toward his lodgings in Pimico.
He was a little unsteady, but not
noticeably; there were few people
about to disturb his progress, save for
a lettering woman here and there, or a
beggar at the CUTTERS edge. He hardly
Needed the rain. and very soon the pot
boys gibe faded from his memory; he
began to be contented again.
He had had rather a good day. There
We're certain scraps of information of
which he seemed to have. the sole use,
and the short memory OF the public
made it possible for him to sell them
round He had read a paragraph in
one of the morning papers that sug-
gested such an opportunity, and had
spent the morning in writing over
again a story he had already told more
times than could be counted.
He would be paid at the end of the
week, and he had enough to go on with
until then. lingering the coins in his
trousers pocket and mechanically
counting them, he gave himself up at
the same time, to calculations as to the
amount that would be due to him for
his days work. Even his estimate of
/ the sum was small and he had to make
deductions, for his expectations We're
always excessive in those days. He
finn ont hi h ND wit
atrical Taught 1t was amazing that
such a one as he should be expected to
take so paltry wage as the payment
of a days labor.
His thoughts went back to the time
when he was a sub-editor. He had
never liked the work; it interfered with
his books and stories. the things he
did for their own sake, and without
regard for the prejudice of editors But
it had been a time of great comfort,
for he had had sufficient for all his
needs. He remembered, too, how cas-
lily he had increased his salary; a little
thing seen from bus as he went home,
or some chance remark that ~fell from
him a friend in the course of con-
versation, would serve as the excuse for
a ffippant column in an evening paper,
or even in literary weekly. And in
those days, when the money was so
little needed, when 1t came as a super
fluffy that might legitimately be wasted
he had been wont to get decent rates.
But a man can never tell when he is
acting wisely He had looked upon his
position as sub-editOr as something that
would always be his; and when he had
lost it he found that it was no longer
possible to do original work His So
called friends had turned out badly, and
behaved in a way that could not but
discourage a man of a sensitive spirit.
To this day some of them owed him
money; little sums of no Importance
at the time, which they had forgotten,
and he had been too proud to speak of.
Some of them had since had the mean
ness to refuse him loans so paltry in
amount that he had bluShed for very
shame, even while he asked for them
They had probably fancied that he
was played out. and need no longer be
counted with. Most men, if one studied
them closely, would be found to conduct
their friendships on purely business
like footing. Then he reflected, and
could not but admit that in some ways
these dOubterS had been justified. He
had not quite come off.
Well, there was still plenty of time.
He had done a good deal, and had a
certain reputation. He had rather neg
1ected it, perhaps, but there We're plenty
of things that might yet be done. He
had still his notebooks, and in them
there were the materials for more nov
els than one; and each would be fine
one 1t was only February now, and
he was quick worker when he once
began. He would get "Fato Profugus'
done at once, so that it might appear
in the autumn. Many publishers had
asked him for books from time to time,
and he would have no difficulty in get
ting the thing accepted, once it had been
written.
He began to think of the story and of
its characters. The heroine was to have
been beautiful. He thought of the
sweetheart who had deserted him just
at the time when his friends began to
drop away.
He remembered now: they all thought
that drink was the enemy that par
alyzed him and kept him idle, while
They were wrong. They did not un-
derstand how a sensitive man needed
stimuIants in moments of depression, or
how long continued disappointment
worked on him, and killed his early
courage. Besides, he had always been
able to give up drink. Again and again,
whenever it had seemed to him that the
habit had gained strength, he had re-
duced his alcohol to a minimum, and
been none the less comfortable
His reflections went further. After
all, the best work he had done of late
had been produced during these inter-
walls of abstinence. Perhaps it was a
mistake to go in for stimulants at all.
Experience seemed to say so, and he
had special reasons now for giving
himself chance. The book would be
a thing worth doing for it's own sake,
and there would also be the pleasure of
proving to his so-called friends that
they had played the fool in sighting
him. He would start afresh tomorrow,
and prove his strength.
After all, he was a just man, and,
now that he had faced the matter bold
1y, he could not but admit that they
had had their excuses. They had GER
tainly underes timated his strength, but
they had known that he had let him
self go too far. He had been on the
brink; had even been lucky in escaping.
1t was not of possible danger to him
self he thought. But he had kept his
mother from knowing how he played
with the thing of which she had so great
fear. Whenever he went down to the
little villa pc where she still ruled the