Dan's father had been a victim of
the habit. I remember meeting the elder Hillars. He was a picturesque
individual, an accomplished scholar, a wide traveller, a diplomatist,
and a noted war correspondent. His work during the Franco-Prussian war
had placed him in the front rank. After sending his son Dan to college
he took no further notice of him. He was killed while serving his
paper at the siege of Alexandria, Egypt. Dan naturally followed his
father's footsteps both in profession and in habits. He had been my
classmate at college, and no one knew him better than I, except it was
himself. The love of adventure and drink had ended the life of the
one; it might end the life of the other.
The foreman in the composing room waited some time for that required
column and a half of editorial copy. I lit my pipe; and my thoughts
ran back to the old days, to the many times Dan had paid my debts and
to the many times I had paid his. Ah, me! those were days when love
and fame and riches were elusive and we went in quest of them. The
crust is hyssop when the heart is young. The garret is a palace when
hope flies unfettered.
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