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Updated: June 1, 2025
Since first-class minds never believe anything very strongly until they've experienced it, its value will be purely relative . . . all people over thirty will refer to it as "depressing." This prelude belongs to the story of a young man who lived, as you and I do, before the book. The generation which numbered Bryan Dalyrimple drifted out of adolescence to a mighty fan-fare of trumpets.
After a moment he thrust the roll of bills into his pocket, snatched of his mask, and running quickly across the street, darted down an alley. Yet, however Dalyrimple justified himself intellectually, he had many bad moments in the weeks immediately following his decision. The tremendous pressure of sentiment and inherited ambition kept raising riot with his attitude. He felt morally lonely.
Five burglaries were attributed to him, but though Dalyrimple had only committed three, he considered that majority had it and appropriated the title to himself. He had once been seen "a large bloated creature with the meanest face you ever laid eyes on." Mrs.
I'm quittin' in a coupla months. Hell! Me stay with this bunch!" The Charley Moores are always going to change jobs next month. They do, once or twice in their careers, after which they sit around comparing their last job with the present one, to the infinite disparagement of the latter. "What do you get?" asked Dalyrimple curiously. "Me? I get sixty." This rather defiantly.
Young Dalyrimple had very keen gray eyes, a mind that delighted the army psychological examiners, a trick of having read it whatever it was some time before, and a cool hand in a hot situation. But these things did not save him a final, unresigned sigh when he realized that he had to go to work right away.
"Did you start at sixty?" "Me? No, I started at thirty-five. He told me he'd put me on the road after I learned the stock. That's what he tells 'em all." "How long've you been here?" asked Dalyrimple with a sinking sensation. "Me? Four years. My last year, too, you bet your boots."
Henry Coleman, awaking at two o'clock at the beam of an electric torch flashed in her eye, could not have been expected to recognize Bryan Dalyrimple at whom she had waved flags last Fourth of July, and whom she had described as "not at all the daredevil type, do you think?"
We've got to get some young men into politics you know the old blood that's been running on the party ticket year in and year out." Dalyrimple licked his lips. "You'll run me for the State Senate?" "I'll PUT you in the State Senate." Mr.
Good and evil aren't any standard to me and they can be a devil of a bad hindrance when I want something. When I want something bad enough, common sense tells me to go and take it and not get caught. And then suddenly Dalyrimple knew what he wanted first. He wanted fifteen dollars to pay his overdue board bill.
Report to Mr. Hanson in the stock-room. He'll start you off." He continued to regard Dalyrimple steadily until the latter, realizing that the interview was over, rose awkwardly. "Well, Mr. Macy, I'm certainly much obliged." "That's all right. Glad to help you, Bryan." After an irresolute moment, Dalyrimple found himself in the hall.
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