A YELLOW JOURNAL
that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy.
"This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton," said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily.
Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?
"You know you are to go New York with me?"
"To New Yawk? What fu'?"
Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the Universe had done its work, it demanded
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