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Said McGuire, "Many such men in the world, and most o' them are worthless—or worse."

But Paullen had a quiet, unmistakable air of manliness; there was no softness in his features to bear out the unworthy suggestion of the eyelashes.

Now he was no longer neat or even clean. Coat lining showed through the mouth-like rip under his arm. A trousers leg was split at the knee. He looked thoughtfully down along his clothes, brushing half-heartedly at dirty splotches.

Presently he began searching his pockets, taking everything out, and feeling about with the detached intentness of a man whose whole attention is at his finger-tips.

"What's gone?" asked McGuire.

"I—it's gone—gone all right. It must have dropped on the floor back there. I have—have left—forty cents," he said, examining the few coins scooped up from a pocket's depth. "It's gone, and——"

Paullen smiled as best he could.

"Know anybody here?"

"No."

"You can get along somehow till you write home."

Paullen shook his head, and quietly said "No."