the sentiment was hot.  But that didn’t last....  Now, a year and more after the war, where does the soldier get off?  Lane, there’re over six hundred thousand of you disabled veterans, and for all I can read and find out the government has done next to nothing.  New York is full of begging soldiers—­on the streets.  Think of it!  And the poor devils are dying everywhere.  My God! think of what’s in the mind of one crippled soldier, let alone over half a million.  I just have a dim idea of what I’d felt.  You must know, or you will know, Lane, for you seem a thoughtful, lofty sort of chap.  Just the kind to make a good soldier, because you had ideals and nerve!...  Well, a selfish and weak administration could hardly be expected to keep extravagant promises to patriots.  But that the American public, as a body, should now be sick of the sight of a crippled soldier—­and that his sweetheart should turn him down!—­this is the hideous blot, the ineradicable shame, the stinking truth, the damned mystery!”

When Pepper ended his speech, which grew more vehement toward the close, Lane could only stare at him in amaze.

“See here, Lane,” added the other hastily, “pardon me for blowing up.  I just couldn’t help it.  I took a shine to you—­and to see you like this—­brings back the resentment I’ve had all along.  I’m blunt, but it’s just as well for you to be put wise quick.  You’ll find friends, like me, who will stand by you, if you let them.  But you’ll also find that most of this rotten world has gone back on you....”

Then Pepper made a sharp, passionate gesture that broke his cigar against the arm of his chair, and he cursed low and deep.  Presently he addressed Lane again.  “Whatever comes of any disclosures I make—­whatever you do—­you’ll not give me away?”

“Certainly not.  You can trust me, Pepper,” returned Lane.

“Son, I’m a wise old guy.  There’s not much that goes on in Middleville I don’t get on to.  And I’ll make your hair curl.  But I’ll confine myself to what comes closest home to you.  I get you, Lane.  You’re game.  You’re through.  You have come back from war to find a hell of a mess.  Your own sister—­your sweetheart—­your friend’s brother and your soldier pard’s sister—­on the primrose path!  And you with your last breath trying to turn them back!  I’ll say it’s a damn fine stunt.  I’m an old gambler, Lane.  I’ve lived in many towns and mixed in tough crowds of crooked men and rotten women.  But I’m here to confess that this after-the-war stuff of Middleville’s better class has knocked out about all the faith I had left in human nature....  Then you came along to teach me a lesson.”

“Well, Pepper, that’s strong talk,” returned Lane.  “But cut it, and hurry to—­to what comes home to me.  What’s the matter with these Middleville girls?”

“Lane, any intelligent man, who knows things, and who can think for himself, will tell you this—­that to judge from the dress, dance, talk, conduct of these young girls—­most of them have apparently gone wrong.”