And of this more reckless, hopeless people Harlson learned much.  With them he was; of them he could never fully be.  The extent to which a man is permanently defiled by pitch-touching cannot, of course, be known.  It depends upon the pitch and upon the man.  It was not a quiet life the young man led!  On the contrary, it was a very feverish one, for he labored hard in the office by day—­he never for an instant abandoned his ambitions and his plans—­and at night he drifted into the land where were warmth and light and lawlessness.  He had his duty there, such as it might be, for he was both a gambler and a protector, and, young as he was, callow as he was, within a year he had become one in demand, no trifler at the table, and an object of rivalry among those whose regard means fee of body and of soul.  He, himself, at that time, did not appreciate the remarkable nature of his changing.  So rapidly he aged in knowledge of all undercurrents that he passed into full maturity without a comprehension of the change.  It is said that some Indians teach their children to swim, not by repeated gentle lessons, but by throwing them into a deep stream recklessly, saving them only at the last moment.  So had some power hurled Grant Harlson into the black waters, and he had not drowned, and had taken rank among strong swimmers.

It is, as I have said, difficult to write intelligently of this portion of this man’s life.  I want to do him justice, for I have always cared for him; yet, from the conventional point of view, at least, nothing can excuse his lapse at this one time.  He should have continued starving, I suppose, as have so many others, and have either died or won, as they did, instead of tasting all that is denied, and gaining much knowledge of the world, of much use in the future, all at the expense, perhaps, of that purity attaching to certain ignorances, as much in the man as the woman, since between the sexes all things are relative.

There were enough odd things in this most odd career.  There were friendships and feuds with those who were of the lower multitude morally, but who were politicians and had their followings.  There were romances of the order which makes the story of Dumas such a success upon the stage, and risks and escapes enough to satisfy the hungriest of romance-readers.  It was all grotesque in its grim reality, and the young man did not know it.  He was an unconscious desperado, and the odd thing about it all was the ease with which he led the double life.

In the morning, clear-headed and competent—­for he did not drink at all of liquors—­he appeared and was resolute at his work.  He was becoming more and more considered.  That he, somehow, knew the town so well, was in his favor.  More than one case of importance was decided in another way from which it might have been, because of his knowledge of the outcasts and their connections, and how they had been used or trifled with on this occasion or on that one.  He was zealous and studied furiously, and in the mere letter of the law became most confident.  His examination was a trifling thing, and, once admitted to the bar, he did not remit his efforts.  He was valuable to the firm.  He was their watch-dog, and he suggested many things.