Who won?
Not even Life, the stool-pigeon, the arch-capper for the game--Life, the ever flourishing graveyard, the everlasting funeral procession.
He drifted back to the immediate present for a moment and noted that the river still ran wide open, and that a moose-bird, perched on the bow of the boat, was surveying him impudently.

Then he drifted dreamily back to his meditations.
There was no escaping the end of the game.

He was doomed surely to be out of it all.

And what of it?
He pondered that question again and again.
Conventional religion had passed Daylight by.

He had lived a sort of religion in his square dealing and right playing with other men, and he had not indulged in vain metaphysics about future life.