鈥楤ut I thought you were so full of energy and happiness,鈥?she said. 鈥榃hat has happened?鈥? And now, except during official hours, I was entirely without control 鈥?without the influences of any decent household around me. I have said something of the comedy of such life, but it certainly had its tragic aspect. Turning it all over in my own mind, as I have constantly done in after years, the tragedy has always been uppermost. And so it was as the time was passing. Could there be any escape from such dirt? I would ask myself; and I always answered that there was no escape. The mode of life was itself wretched. I hated the office. I hated my work. More than all I hated my idleness. I had often told myself since I left school that the only career in life within my reach was that of an author, and the only mode of authorship open to me that of a writer of novels. In the journal which I read and destroyed a few years since, I found the matter argued out before I had been in the Post Office two years. Parliament was out of the question. I had not means to go to the Bar. In Official life, such as that to which I had been introduced, there did not seem to be any opening for real success. Pens and paper I could command. Poetry I did not believe to be within my grasp. The drama, too, which I would fain have chosen, I believed to be above me. For history, biography, or essay writing I had not sufficient erudition. But I thought it possible that I might write a novel. I had resolved very early that in that shape must the attempt be made. But the months and years ran on, and no attempt was made. And yet no day was passed without thoughts of attempting, and a mental acknowledgment of the disgrace of postponing it. What reader will not understand the agony of remorse produced by such a condition of mind? The gentleman from Mecklenburgh Square was always with me in the morning 鈥?always angering me by his hateful presence 鈥?but when the evening came I could make no struggle towards getting rid of him. pk10网页全天计划 I checked my watch, and suddenly found it hard to breathe: thirty minutes till the start. The thirty-five-mile hike to Urique had, as Caballo predicted, 鈥渃hewed me up and crapped me out,鈥?and inhalf an hour, I had to do it all over again and go fifteen miles farther. Caballo had laid out adiabolical course; we鈥檇 be climbing and descending sixty-five hundred feet in fifty miles, exactlythe altitude gain of the first half of the Leadville Trail 100. Caballo was no fan of the Leadvillerace directors, but when it came to choosing terrain, he was just as pitiless. It was not only that he had to do so much household work, for even the cooking, cleaning up slops, bed-making, and fire-fighting ere long devolved upon him, but his business no longer prospered. He could buy as hitherto, but Ellen seemed unable to sell as she had sold at first. The fact was that she sold as well as ever, but kept back part of the proceeds in order to buy gin, and she did this more and more till even the unsuspecting Ernest ought to have seen that she was not telling the truth. When she sold better 鈥?that is to say when she did not think it safe to keep back more than a certain amount, she got money out of him on the plea that she had a longing for this or that, and that it would perhaps irreparably damage the baby if her longing was denied her. All seemed right, reasonable, and unavoidable, nevertheless Ernest saw that until the confinement was over he was likely to have a hard time of it. All, however, would then come right again. 鈥淚f that鈥檚 your opinion of me鈥斺€斺€?she said, and turning swiftly walked away. Martin overtook her. Damn. He caught me just as I was trying to slink away from the madness of the street party andlimp off to the hotel to collapse. I鈥檇 already heard Barefoot Ted鈥檚 entire postrace commentary,including his observation that human urine is both nutrient-rich and an effective tooth whitener,and I couldn鈥檛 imagine anything he could possibly say that would be more compelling than a deepsleep in a soft bed. But it wasn鈥檛 Ted telling stories this time. It was Caballo. 鈥淭he barefoot walker receives a continuous stream of information about the ground and about hisown relationship to it,鈥?Dr. Brand has said, 鈥渨hile a shod foot sleeps inside an unchangingenvironment.鈥? Fortune seemed to turn in favor of the hunters, for a young fawn fell a victim to a well-directed bullet from Lord Dalhousie's gun next morning, and another was secured by the Chief. 鈥淚 guess that鈥檚 everyone, then. Caballo is going to be psyched.鈥?