The moment of reminiscence had
restored his good humour. "Yes, I suppose it was a bargain. You have
held me to it pretty well."
"Let it remain a bargain to the end," said Conward. "It is the only
way we can finish up."
Dave dropped the subject. There appeared to be nothing to gain from
pursuing it further. They were in the grip of a System--a System which
had found them poor, had suddenly made them wealthy, and now, with
equal suddenness, threatened to make them poor again. It was like
war--kill or be killed. It occurred to Dave that it was even worse
than war. War has in it the qualities of the heroic; splendid bravery;
immeasurable self-sacrifice; that broad spirit of devotion to a vague
ideal which, for lack of a better name, is called patriotism. This
System had none of that. It was more like assassination. . . .
Night had settled when Dave left the office. The champagne sky had
deepened into a strip of copper; the silhouettes were soft and black;
street lights studded the bank of foothills to the west like setting
stars. Darkness had tucked the distance that lay between the city and
the Rockies in the lap of night, and the great ridge stood up close and
clear, prodding its jagged edge into the copper pennant of the day's
farewell. A soft wind blew from the south-west; June was in the air.
June, too, was in Dave's heart as he walked the few blocks to his
bachelor quarters. What of the drab injustice of business? Let him
forget that; now it was night .
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