Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
Other phrases returned now, like echoes.

The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate.

Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars.
But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach.

A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat--to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
"Look at it!" he felt like screaming.

"Clean and spotless, but beginning to show the wear and tear of constant use.