"Ah!" cried Wild, laying down his pen and looking up with a smile of satisfaction. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction. “It isn’t anything to do with our times particularly. Please don’t let any one know that.
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