"So you did," replied the prize-fighter. I think it inadvisable—I don’t want an intimacy to spring up between you and a man of that type. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. “I can’t conceive what you want. 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. “It is in your hands from now on, Shar. ‘Or flew in by balloon, perhaps. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times.
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