“Your broken-hearted

“JIM.”

The last began without formality:—­

“This is the end of me commercially.  I give up; my nerve is gone.  I suppose I ought to be glad; for we’re through the court.  I don’t know as ever I knew how, and I’m sure I don’t remember.  If it pans out—­the wreck, I mean—­we’ll go to Europe, and live on the interest of our money.  No more work for me.  I shake when people speak to me.  I have gone on, hoping and hoping, and working and working, and the lead has pinched right out.  I want to lie on my back in a garden and read Shakespeare and E. P. Roe.  Don’t suppose it’s cowardice, Loudon.  I’m a sick man.  Rest is what I must have.  I’ve worked hard all my life; I never spared myself; every dollar I ever made, I’ve coined my brains for it.  I’ve never done a mean thing; I’ve lived respectable, and given to the poor.  Who has a better right to a holiday than I have?  And I mean to have a year of it straight out; and if I don’t, I shall lie right down here in my tracks, and die of worry and brain trouble.  Don’t mistake.  That’s so.  If there are any pickings at all, TRUST SPEEDY; don’t let the creditors get wind of what there is.  I helped you when you were down; help me now.  Don’t deceive yourself; you’ve got to help me right now, or never.  I am clerking, and NOT FIT TO CYPHER.  Mamie’s typewriting at the Phoenix Guano Exchange, down town.  The light is right out of my life.  I know you’ll not like to do what I propose.  Think only of this; that it’s life or death for

“JIM PINKERTON.

“P.S.  Our figure was seven per cent.  O, what a fall was there!  Well, well, it’s past mending; I don’t want to whine.  But, Loudon, I do want to live.  No more ambition; all I ask is life.  I have so much to make it sweet to me!  I am clerking, and USELESS AT THAT.  I know I would have fired such a clerk inside of forty minutes, in MY time.  But my time’s over.  I can only cling on to you.  Don’t fail

“JIM PINKERTON.”

There was yet one more postscript, yet one more outburst of self-pity and pathetic adjuration; and a doctor’s opinion, unpromising enough, was besides enclosed.  I pass them both in silence.  I think shame to have shown, at so great length, the half-baked virtues of my friend dissolving in the crucible of sickness and distress; and the effect upon my spirits can be judged already.  I got to my feet when I had done, drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Honolulu.  One moment the world seemed at an end; the next, I was conscious of a rush of independent energy.  On Jim I could rely no longer; I must now take hold myself.  I must decide and act on my own better thoughts.