Though not so
robust as when I last saw him, his form was yet elegant. In the old
days we had called him Adonis, and Donie had clung to him long after
the Cambridge time.
"Now," said he, when we had lighted our pipes, "I'll tell you why I'm
going to the dogs. I've got to tell it to some one or go daft; and I
can't say that I'm not daft as it is."
"It is a woman," said I, after reflection, "who causes a man to drink,
to lose all ambition."
"It is."
"It is a woman," I went on, holding the amber stem of my pipe before
the light which gleamed golden through the transparent gum, "who causes
a man to pull up stakes and prospect for new claims, to leave the new
country for the old."
"It is a woman indeed," he replied. He was gazing at me with a new
interest. "If the woman had accepted him, he would not have been here."
"No, he would not," said I.
"In either case, yours or mine."
"In either case. Go on with your story; there's nothing more to add to
mine."
Some time passed, and nothing but the breathing of the pipes was heard.
Now and then I would poke away at the ashes in my pipe bowl, and Dan
would do the same.
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