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Sitting in his room that night he took account of his assets and his liabilities. His
room rent was paid until Saturday and this was Thursday, and in his pocket were
one dollar and sixty cents. Opening his trunk, he drew forth a sheet of paper and
an envelope, and, clearing the top of the rickety little table which stood at the
head of his bed, he sat down on the soiled counterpane and wrote a letter.
DEAR DAD:
I guess I'm through, I have tried and
guess I'll have to. If you will send me the price I'll
With love, Jim
failed. It is hard to admit it, but I
come home.
Slowly he folded the letter and inserted it in the envelope, his face mirroring an
utter dejection such as Jimmy Torrance had never before experienced in his life.
"Failure," he muttered, "unutterable failure."
Taking his hat, he walked down the creaking stairway, with its threadbare carpet,
and out onto the street to post his letter.
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