“Not so fast!” interrupted Arved.  “I’m an anarchist, but I don’t believe in blowing up innocent policemen.  Neither do you, Quell.  You wouldn’t hurt a bartender!  Give an anarchist plenty to drink, and he sheds his anarchy like a shirt.  There are, I have noticed, three stages in the career of a revolutionist:  destruction, instruction, construction.  He begins the first at twenty, at forty he is teaching, at sixty he believes in society—­especially if he has money in the bank.”  Quell regarded the speaker sourly.

“You are a wonder, Arved.  You fly off on a wild tangent stimulated by the mere sound of a word.  Who said anything about dynamite-anarchy?  There’s another sort that men of brains—­madmen if you will—­believe and indirectly teach.  Emerson was one, though he hardly knew it.  Thoreau realized it for him, however.  Don’t you remember his stern rebuke when Emerson visited him in Concord jail:  ‘Henry, why art thou here?’ meekly inquired the mystic man.  ‘Ralph, why art thou not here?’ was the counter-question.  Thoreau had brave nerves.  To live in peace in this malicious swamp of a world we must all wear iron masks until we are carted off to the domino-park; pious people call it the cemetery.  Now, I’m going to sleep.  I’m tired of all this jabbering.  We are crazy for sure, or else we wouldn’t talk so much.”

Arved grumbled, “Yes, I’ve noticed that when a man in an asylum begins to suspect his keepers of madness he’s mighty near lunacy himself.”

“You have crazy blue eyes, Arved!  Where’s that flask—­I’m dry again!  Let’s sleep.”

They drained the bottle and were soon dozing, while about them buzzed the noon in all its torrid splendour.

When they awoke it was solid night.  They yawned and damned the darkness, which smelt like stale india-rubber, so Quell said.  They cursed life and the bitter taste in their mouths.  Quell spoke of his thirst in words that startled the easy-going Arved, who confessed that if he could rid himself of the wool in his throat, he would be comparatively happy.  Then they stumbled along, bumping into trees, feeling with outstretched arms, but finding nothing to guide them save the few thin stars in the torn foliage overhead.  Without watches, they could catch no idea of the hour.  The night was far spent, declared Arved; he discovered that he was very hungry.  Suddenly, from the top of a steep, slippery bank they pitched forward into the highroad.

Arved put out his hand, searching for his comrade.  “Quell, Quell!” he whispered.  Quell rose darkly beside him, a narrow lath of humanity.  Locking arms, both walked briskly until, turning a sharp, short corner, they beheld, all smiling in the night, a summer garden, well lighted and full of gay people, chattering, singing, eating, drinking—­happy!  The two fugitives were stunned for a moment by such a joyful prospect.  Tears came slowly to their eyes, yet they never relaxed their gait.  Arriving at an outlying table and seats, they bethought themselves of their appearance, of money, of other disquieting prospects; but, sitting down, they boldly called a waiter.