The landlord laughed scornfully. "They're not made. He'd legislate the
devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M'sieu'?"

"Somewhere cheap--along the river," answered the Forgotten Man.

Jolicoeur's good-natured face became serious. "I'll tell you a place--
it's honest. It's the next street, a few hundred yards down, on the
left. There's a wooden fish over the door. It's called The Black Bass
--that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la;
la, there's the second bell--I must be getting to Mass!" With a nod he
turned and went into the house.

The Forgotten Man passed slowly up the street, into the side street,
and followed it till he came to The Black Bass, and turned into the small
stable-yard. A stable-man was stirring. He at once put his dogs into
a little pen set apart for them, saw them fed from the kitchen, and,
betaking himself to a little room behind the bar of the hotel, ordered
breakfast. The place was empty, save for the servant--the household were
at Mass. He looked round the room abstractedly. He was thinking of a
crippled man in a hospital, of a girl from a village in the Chaudiere
Valley. He thought with a shiver of a white house on the hill. He
thought of himself as he had never done before in his life. Passing
along the street, he had realised that he had no moral claim upon
anything or anybody within these precincts of his past life. The place
was a tomb to him.

As he sat in the little back parlour of The Black Bass, eating his frugal
breakfast of eggs and bread and milk, the meaning of it all slowly dawned
upon him. Through his intellect he had known something of humanity, but