These fishing trips of yours--" "Fishing!" Crailey laughed.

"Trips of a poetaster! It's then I write best, and write I will! There's a poem, and a damned good one, too, old preacher, in every gill of whiskey, and I'm the lad that can extract it! Lord! what's better than to be out in the open, all by yourself in the woods, or on the river?
Think of the long nights alone with the glory of heaven and a good demijohn.

Why, a man's thoughts are like actors performing in the air and all the crowding stars for audience! You know in your soul you'd rather have me out there, going it all by myself, than raising thunder over town.

And you know, too, it doesn't tell on me; it doesn't show! You couldn't guess, to save your life, how much I've had to-day, now, could you ?" "Yes," returned the other, "I could." "Well, well," said Crailey, good-naturedly, "we weren't talking of me." He set down the flask, went to his friend and dropped a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"What made you break the guitar?
Tell me." "What makes you think I broke it ?" asked his partner sharply.
"Tell me why you did it," said Crailey.
And Tom, pacing the room, told him, while Crailey stood in silence, looking him eagerly in the eye whenever Tom turned his way.