These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. D'ye hear. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. “Please come by. ” The man’s face was dark with passion.
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