The Day of Days

t every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaring congestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted the flood tide o

tion would ill become one of his inches, contented himself with keeping up-his gait an apparently effortless, tireless, and comfo

s companion askance, with furtive suspicion. Their association was now one of some seven years' standing; and it seemed a grievous thing that, after p

ge interjecte

rted. "Eh?" he

you picked up all th

I used to spar a bit with the fellow

Bross, declining to be fobbed o

as at lib

n, when you w

lf," said P. S

at college once

I never graduated. When I was twenty-one I ha

er. "They ain't been in bu

ly thir

eeny. You'll neve

e asperity, "is an uncivil untruth dictated

m wrong and you're right and I won't

agreed P. Sybar

n't think I could work in the same dump with you seven years and only be startin' to

k so," P. Sybarit

ad money, didn

it only goes to prove there's not

Bross, upon prolonge

e, who had fallen to th

right, P.S. Far be it from me to wanta pry into your Past. Besides, I

ead

call you when you w

e reflections. It irked him sore to remember he had been worsted by

s a covetous soul, loath to forfeit the promised treat; withal he was human (after his kind) and since reprisals were not barred by their understanding, he began then an

ty of their statures forebade; moreover, George entertained a vexatious suspicion that P. Sybarite's explanation on his recent downfal

elf privately. "I was outclassed, all right, all right. What

ommunicative as well-to-do relations by marriage; his shadowy, pale and wistful smile denoted, i

he proposed party he would be expected to dance attendance upon Miss Violet Prim, leav

the one pippin in the house all for his lonely. It's a wonder he wo

stuff with Vi lookin' on. I don't even like to think of myself lampin'

tate any way to square his account with P. Sybarite. And when, at Thirty-eighth Street, the latter made an excuse to part with George, instead of going home in his company, the shipp

at arch-comedian Destiny (disguised as Thirst

escuing the sheet, he smoothed it out, examined (grinning) its daily meed of comics, read every word on the "Sports Page," ploug

contemplated a two-column reproduction in coarse half-tone of a photograph entitled "Marian Blessington." Slowly the light dawned upon mental dar

convinced that he harboured within him the makings of a devil of a fellow, all the