He was old; he had no
money and no way to make money; he could find nothing to do. The blow had
seemed to daze him for a time; then he began to drop in at the hotel bar,
where Wilkerson, the professional drunkard, favored him with his society.
The old man understood; he knew it was the beginning of the end. He sold
his books in order to continue his credit at the Palace bar, and once or
twice, unable to proceed to his own dwelling, spent the night in a lumber
yard, piloted thither by the hardier veteran, Wilkerson.
The morning after the editor took him home, Fisbee appeared at the
"Herald" office in a new hat and a decent suit of black. He had received
his salary in advance, his books had been repurchased, and he had become
the reportorial staff of the "Carlow County Herald"; also, he was to write
various treatises for the paper. For the first few evenings, when he
started home from the office, his chief walked with him, chatting
heartily, until they had passed the Palace bar. But Fisbee's redemption
was complete.
The old man had a daughter. When she came to Plattville, he told her what
the editor of the "Herald" had done for him.
The journalist kept steadily at his work; and, as time went on, the
bitterness his predecessor's swindle had left him passed away. But his
loneliness and a sense of defeat grew and deepened.
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