The Life of a Poor Man

He had no knack for business, no head for figures. He wanted to travel and write, so were his inmost longings. As the years dragged on, and he neared middle-aged without making any more money, or acquiring any firmer hell, a sick despair possessed him. His own hell gave out, and he had to go away for six months and work harder than ever when he came back. For half the year, he did not reach his dimm of tone flat till after dark, and could only brush up for dinner.