That, at least, is the
abiding belief of Mr. Sims.
"Do you ever hear anything of McGregor now?" I ask him
sometimes.
"No," he says, shaking his head quietly. "I understand
he went all to the devil."
"How was that?"
"Booze," says Mr. Sims. There is a quiet finality about
the word that ends all discussion.
"Poor old Curly!" says Mr. Sims, in speaking of another
of his classmates. "I guess he's pretty well down and
out these days."
"What's the trouble?" I say.
Mr. Sims moves his eyes sideways as he sits. It is easier
than moving his head.
"Booze," he says.
Even apparent success in life does not save Mr. Sims's
friends.
"I see," I said one day, "that they have just made Arthur
Stewart a Chief Justice out west."
"Poor old Artie," murmured Mr. Sims. "He'll have a hard
time holding it down. I imagine he's pretty well tanked
up all the time these days."
When Mr. Sims has not heard of any of his associates for
a certain lapse of years, he decides to himself that they
are down and out. It is a form of writing them off. There
is a melancholy satisfaction in it. As the years go by
Mr. Sims is coming to regard himself and a few others as
the lonely survivors of a great flood.
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